


Sleeping Dogs

by uena



Series: Lovers in Arms [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Character Development, Collarkink, Communication, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Healthy Relationships, M/M, OT3, Panic Attacks, Praise Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 124,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks have passed since Athos admitted to himself that Porthos is not the only one who succeeded in manoeuvering himself into his heart. Aramis has made his place there, as well as one in Athos' bed, and the three of them share a relationship Athos is far more comfortable with than he would have thought possible.</p><p>Still, there are thoughts and needs he is keeping back, and Aramis has troubles and doubts of his own.</p><p>Luckily, Porthos still only wants to help - and he is very good at it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



> Alright, here we go again!
> 
> Due to a very busy schedule, my trusted beta hope-calaris had to leave me, but you need not despair, I managed to find myself help in the glorious form of tomburke, and she has done an amazing job so far!
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU to the both of you for helping me out with this, I wouldn't know what to do without you!

It is a cold, grey morning. The air in the room is sharp and fresh, the frost barely kept at bay by the dirty windowpanes. The sky, visible through the patches of clean glass, threatens rain, and Athos looks at the clouds and wonders for how much longer they will hold out ere they spill their load.

The fire has died in the hearth overnight, and its warmth is long forgotten, but Athos is not cold. His skin is still sleep-warm, still remembers touches and kisses, remembers the heat of another body. He is standing by the door, fully-dressed in his uniform, is watching Aramis and Porthos get ready, surveying the room with an amused eye.

Maybe he should be used to their dance by now.

He is not.

„I seem to be missing a boot,” Aramis says, half naked, his voice drowsy. He rakes his fingers through his hair and gets stuck halfway. “Has anyone seen my boot?” He steps over to the bowl of water standing on the table by the window, and blinks sluggish lids at Porthos – Porthos who is standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, and looking around for Aramis’ missing footwear. “I believe that’s my shirt you’re wearing,” Aramis mumbles, and ducks his face into the water, in the futile hope it will help him wake up. He re-emerges and then gropes for the nearest bit of cloth to dry himself with.

Porthos, abandoning the search for Aramis’ boot in favour of struggling out of Aramis’ shirt and throwing it at Aramis’ head, grunts. “Will you stop using my bandana for that? Take the towel!”

Aramis ignores him entirely, and drapes the damp cloth around his neck while he puts his shirt on, still not fully awake, but instead increasingly befuddled. “Where in Heaven’s name is my hat?”

Athos studies Aramis, halfway dressed, his braces hanging off his hips, watches him turn on the spot, and the left corner of his mouth lifts a fraction. “I cannot help you with your hat, but your missing boot is beneath the bed.”

Aramis shoots him a grateful grin and dives for his footwear, unearths his hat while he’s at it. “Ah, I remember now – Porthos kicked it under here last night in his haste to –“

“Where’s my shirt?” Porthos interrupts him. “What’d you do with it?”

Aramis grins up at him, and stretches out on the floor, puts his right elbow down and rests his head on his palm. “Me? Why would I do anything with your shirt?”

“You’re the one who took it off me,” Porthos reminds him, “I’ve a very clear memory of that at least.”

Athos looks around once more, and spots it in the corner where Aramis keeps their healing supplies. “It is halfway behind the chest,” he says calmly. “Aramis, come up off the floor – we are running late.”

“How can we be running late when the sun’s not even properly up yet?” Aramis complains half-heartedly. He does get up off the floor though, puts his boots on, and straightens his braces. He looks up in time to watch Porthos put his shirt on as well, and promptly steps over to him in a clear attempt to stall his progress and get some kisses while he’s at it.

Athos watches Porthos fold his arms around Aramis, watches how he pulls him closer, and smiles. “Gentlemen, please.”

“Come over here and join us,” Porthos invites him with a happy grin, and Athos allows himself to be drawn in by the warmth in his eyes, steps over to them and joins their embrace.

Aramis clings to him immediately, and rubs his cheek over the bare skin between the folds of Athos’ shirt. “I’d prefer to stay in bed today.”

“Or any day,” Porthos grunts in an amused voice, and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ neck.

Athos feels Aramis’ answering smile against his skin and can barely refrain from pulling him even closer against his body. “True enough.”

“That is hardly possible,” Athos reminds him. “The Captain for one would strongly object.”

Aramis’ smile widens, and he brushes a kiss to Athos’ throat, fleeting and sweet, lifts his head to brush another one to Athos’ lips. “I fear you might be right.”

He steps out of their embrace to don his hat, and Porthos draws Athos closer to his body, puts a gentle hand beneath Athos’ chin and lifts his head so he can look into his eyes. “You look very handsome this morning, love.”

He is too earnest and too sincere, far too … too kind.

Athos manages to hold his gaze, but the fluttering sensation in his stomach is strong enough to steal his voice and lock it inside his chest. He cannot be sure, but he might be blushing. Porthos merely grins when Athos does not answer him, and leans in for a kiss – loving and unhurried.

Aramis sighs audibly. “And people call _me_ charming.”

“They do?” Porthos asks once he has released Athos’ mouth, and waggles his brows at Aramis.

The resulting smile taking over Aramis’ lips looks helplessly fond, and Athos stretches up to Porthos, silently hoping for another kiss. “Are we ready then?”

Porthos grins and ducks his head, obliges Athos the way he always does.

“I don’t know about ready, but we’re at least mostly dressed,” Porthos says afterwards, and looks around for his jacket. Aramis picks it up from the chair it was thrown over on the previous evening, and helps Porthos into it, strokes his hands over the width of Porthos’ shoulders.

Porthos thanks him with a smile and yet another kiss, and Athos is too engrossed in the sight of the two of them together to complain about this new delay.

They do not have a set time to arrive at the garrison anyway.

Finding Aramis’ jacket takes a moment. They finally unearth it from the foot of the bed where it has apparently spent the night. Strapping Aramis into it proves rather difficult, with Porthos paying far more attention to where he’s placing his mouth on Aramis’ face instead of what his hands are doing.

It has not yet been a month since they took Aramis into their bed, so Athos understands this never-ending need to be close to one another, and refrains from commenting on it.

It makes him feel _light_ to see Aramis and Porthos together like this, and he enjoys watching them kiss just as much as he enjoys being kissed by them. He never knew that being in love could feel like this – that being in love with not only one but two persons at once could be so … easy.

The question which of his friends he prefers very seldom rears its head, and when it does, Athos is able to push it back down with surprising ease. Because he loves them both equally. Watching them kiss and hold each other, he is never able to begrudge them their time together, is never jealous of the affection they bestow on each other.

It feels too good to see them happy to be jealous.

Once everyone is finally dressed, and Aramis has strapped all his weaponry to his person, they set forth into the cold, grey morning. The streets are almost empty with the night chill still sharp in the air. Only the most hardened have ventured outside already, and a few drunkards are stumbling past them on their way home.

Winter seems to be setting in early this year, and Athos pulls his shoulders up and wishes he had remembered to bring a neckerchief or a proper scarf. The scar on his neck is still sensitive, even if it does not require bandages anymore.

It takes a minute of him silently bearing his discomfort, maybe two, before Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him in his tracks. “It irks you?”

It is still a question, because Porthos always asks, even when he is rather sure; and when his hand comes up to Athos’ neck and his thumb brushes over his cold skin, Athos’ lashes nearly flutter shut. They are in public though, so he keeps his eyes open, and does not lean into the touch the way he wants to. “A little,” he admits, his voice as smooth as possible.

Porthos does not say anything, simply pulls his bandana out of his belt and slings it around Athos’ neck. He seems to carry an everlasting supply with him these days, always ready to lend them to his friends when needed.

The coarse fabric feels good on Athos’ skin, and he allows the corners of his mouth to lift into a little smile. “Thank you.”

Porthos’ answering grin warms him just as much as the lingering touch of his hand – just as much as the knowledge that he is carrying something of Porthos on his skin; something visible in addition to the marks on his hips and chest, hidden away from prying eyes by his uniform.

Athos has gotten used to the fact that Porthos putting one of his bandanas around his neck will keep his skin warm and flushed for hours, will make him loose and relaxed in a way that would be shameful if Athos still had it in him to feel any shame about being with Porthos.

About Porthos being his master.

Athos cannot be ashamed about that. He loves Porthos too much, is too grateful to him – owes him too much.

Porthos did not make him his dog; Athos did that all by himself, has nothing but his own desire and his own needs to blame. Because he knows how different it could be, how much _worse_ it could be, he tries not to think about his own decrepitude too hard.

In his youth he dreamt of fairy tales and adventures, of romance and his one true love. Reality was cruel to him, found him a weak, blind target to make an example of, and stripped his dreams away from him until he had nothing left, not even himself.

He has come a long way from what re-emerged from the ashes of his dreams, but that does not change the fact that he is a broken, twisted thing, no longer pure – if he ever was – no longer deserving of the riches of Heaven.

Sometimes he is not even sure that he deserves Porthos and Aramis in his life. But their stubborn habit of staying at his side, taking care of him and loving him has strengthened over the years of their friendship, not weakened. It gives Athos hope, that stubbornness, gives him hope for his remaining years, maybe even for his life after death.

Aramis certainly prays enough for the three of them.

They walk on once Porthos has secured his bandana around Athos’ neck with a tight knot, giving Athos all the warmth he will need for the day. They claim the street as theirs, walk side by side, all three of them, and Athos holds his head high and his shoulders straight, and takes his strength from the insignia on his shoulder and the two men at his side.

He is happy, despite everything he has lost. Sometimes he even allows the idea into his mind that the dreams of his youth have come true after all. Not as innocent and pure as they once were, certainly blemished by the realities of life, but beautiful nevertheless.

Aramis and Porthos may not be the heroes he imagined in his youth, but they are _real_ , and therefore better. He knows how weak they can be, knows their faults and thus cherishes their strength all the more.

They do not lie to him, they’ve never hurt him, and they love him, not despite everything that he is, but _for_ it. He has never deserved them and he never will, but that’s what heroes are for – to give hope to those who are too weak to fight for themselves, whether they deserve it or not.

The corners of Athos’ mouth quirk upwards and he smiles to himself. To liken Aramis and Porthos to heroes might set them on a pedestal too high even for them. They are too human to be heroes, most certainly too human to be angels (or even demons, depending on who is looking at them), but to him, they are … they are _his_.

More importantly, he is theirs.

 

They arrive at the garrison just when the clouds over the city give in and release the threatened rain. D’Artagnan has not yet arrived, so they enter the Captain’s office without him, thus barely escaping a torrent of water drumming down into the yard with enough force to send specks of mud flying.

The Captain’s head is bent low over a piece of paper, studying it by the light of a low-burning candle, and he does not look up for a long moment. When he finally does, he is smiling, amusement lurking in the corners of his eyes. “Gentlemen – you are rather early.”

“Told you,” Porthos grunts from Athos’ left side, and Athos lifts a brow. “You did?”

“He didn’t,” Aramis clarifies and stands a little straighter. “I said it was far too early.”

The Captain’s mouth twitches, but he manages to keep a sober expression. “I fear I have nothing of importance for you to do today. Nothing but patrol, that is.” He casts a significant glance outside the window and into the yard, where the rain is falling with obstinate steadiness, just as hard as when it set in.

On his left, Athos can feel Porthos sag a little.

The Captain’s expression morphs into an indulgent smile. “Go home. You have earned yourselves a day of leave.”

Athos blinks at him in mild confusion, but Aramis immediately grasps his right arm, eager and enthusiastic. “Ah, I’m sure we’ll make good use of our unexpected freedom, Captain. Thank you very much.”

Treville lifts a sceptical brow, and Aramis clears his throat. “We are free to go?”

“You are,” Treville agrees, and fixes his eyes on Athos, “Try to stay out of trouble?”

Athos merely nods. The Captain knows as well as he does that trying to stay out of trouble is what he always does. It just does not work all that often.

He allows Aramis to drag him out of Treville’s office and down the stairs into the yard where they meet d’Artagnan. The boy is soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his face, and Athos clears his throat while Porthos snickers behind him. “The Captain granted us a day of leave, I am sure he will grant you the same.”

D’Artagnan groans and tries to shake some water out of his hair, causing Porthos to snicker even louder.

“Go inside,” Athos urges him gently, “you will catch a cold if you remain in this weather for much longer.”

D’Artagnan manages a smile and takes his leave of them to climb the stairs to the Captain’s office.

“Catch a cold?” Aramis says as soon as the boy is out of earshot. “You’re starting to coddle him, Athos.”

Athos ignores him in favour of looking up at the sky. It does not look like the rain is going to let up any time soon.

“Home or breakfast?” Porthos asks, his brows lowered into a frown of discomfort. “We’ll get wet either way.”

“All I want is to go back to bed,” Aramis replies. There’s no innuendo at all in his voice, only a sleepy longing that finds an answering echo in Athos’ chest.

“Yes,” he agrees, “home.”

Porthos huffs and puts his hands on his belt, squares his shoulders. “Then you go without me, and I’ll go get some food for when we’re ready for it. No need to get wet twice.”

“You do not want us to come with you?” Athos asks, turning his head to look up at him, and the fabric of Porthos’ bandana brushes against the scar on his neck, sending a shiver of warmth down Athos’ spine.

Porthos grins. “Afraid I won’t come home?”

Athos tilts his head, and Porthos’ bandana seems to mould itself closer to his sensitive skin. “Always,” he drawls.

Porthos huffs once more and smiles at him. “Go on then,” he says and pats Athos’ shoulder. “Get a fire going. I’ll be along in no time at all.”

With that he marches out into the yard and into the rain and leaves them, his tall frame all too sudden lost in the gloom.

Next to Athos, Aramis sighs. “Shall we brave the elements as well?”

Athos hunches his shoulders and lowers his head, and takes a step forward, confident that Aramis will follow without being asked.

He promptly smiles to himself when Aramis remains at his side all the way through the yard and the still empty streets of Paris. Aramis is rather silent, but he is a warm, steady presence, and Athos enjoys his closeness as he always does.

They go back to Aramis’ lodgings because Aramis still has the biggest bed between the three of them, and Athos watches him unlock the door while the rain drips off their hats and collects beneath their boots as they sink into the soaked earth.

Some drops manage to bypass the leather of Athos’ uniform, get into the linen of his shirt and run down his neck. He shivers and bites his lip, does not urge Aramis to hurry, but stays silent.

They push into the room as soon as the door is open, divest themselves of hats and jackets and hang them up to dry, and put the boots next to the hearth. Athos kneels down in front of it to get a fire going, and Aramis strips out of his trousers and throws himself headfirst onto the bed and his mountain of blankets. The bed creaks ominously.

“Careful now,” Athos advises him with a slight drawl. “We still need it.”

“It did not break under Porthos’ onslaughts yet, it will not break from me merely falling onto it,” Aramis mumbles into the bedding. When Athos turns his head to look at him, he is stretching out over the whole width of the bed, sighing luxuriously.

Athos smiles and returns his attention towards the hearth, concentrates on getting the room warm for when Porthos comes home to them. It does not take very long until he brings a spark to life that sets the dry grass between the logs of wood aflame, and he tends it carefully until it licks greedily over the wood as well.

Only then does he get up to take off his trousers, and hangs them up next to his jacket.

Aramis turns on his back then, as though he somehow feels that Athos is rather sparingly dressed as well now, and sits up. He is smiling, albeit hesitantly, and Athos steps over to him and puts his hand to his cheek.

It will never cease to amaze him how Aramis will simply close his eyes and lean into his touch when Athos does this, how he goes relaxed and pliant … sometimes nuzzles his face into Athos’ palm.

It never ceases to amaze him how quiet Aramis can get, how still and _content_. In Athos’ imagination, Aramis had always been a dominant lover, restless and active.

With Porthos and him, he is most certainly not.

“Do you want me to join you?” Athos asks him, his voice smooth and gentle, and Aramis nods and kisses his palm.

“Yes, please.”

Aramis sounds blissfully content, sleepy and soft, and Athos lets his thumb brush over Aramis’ cheek before he pulls his hand away. Aramis opens his eyes then and lies down on the bed, moves some blankets out of the way and onto the floor, gives Athos more than enough space to lie down beside him.

Athos does so without further ado, and it does not surprise him anymore when Aramis immediately moves closer to him and pushes into his arms. Aramis wants to be touched, always wants to be caressed and petted, and Athos finds that he enjoys giving in to him and taking care of his needs.

So he refrains from commenting on Aramis using his chest as a pillow and instead busies himself with loosening the knot of Porthos’ bandana.

It is a tight one, difficult to untangle, and it takes Athos a moment to find its weak spot. The idea to ask Aramis for help raises its head and is promptly pushed away. Aramis still refrains from doing as much as touching Porthos’ bandana when it is swathed around Athos’ neck, and he is visibly uncomfortable when Athos or Porthos ask him to take it off.

Athos cannot blame him. Aramis must have picked up on the fabric’s significance by now, and it seems as though he does not want to be a part of what it implies.

So Athos does as best he can by himself.

He closes his eyes when the knot finally gives in to his probing fingertips, and he takes the bandana off, and hangs it over the bed frame to dry.

He immediately feels a little bit colder, less comfortable and secure in his skin, and he sighs and pushes his hand into Aramis’ hair. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, looking up at the ceiling while Aramis rubs his cheek over the fabric of his shirt.

“I want to stay awake until Porthos is back.”

Athos smiles. “His return will wake you anyway.”

“Yes,” Aramis says, and then he moves his head so he can look up at Athos, “but I also want to stay awake for … for this. For you.”

Athos swallows and pushes his fingers deeper into Aramis’ hair, lets his fingertips graze over his scalp. “As you wish.”

Aramis smiles at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Athos smiles back, feeling a little bit lighter – happy in a way he thought was lost to him forever when he lost her.

He watches Aramis bite his lip, and since he knows by now that this means Aramis is keeping back what should be said out loud, he lifts his other hand and grazes Aramis’ cheek with his knuckles. “What is it?”

Aramis evades his gaze, and Athos sighs. “Aramis. Tell me.”

“It’s just,” a slight flush is creeping up Aramis’ neck, Athos can see it, “I never thought you would smile at me like this – like … like you smile at Porthos.”

Athos’ heart jumps into a complicated staccato rhythm, and he grips Aramis’ hair a little bit tighter. Outside the window the rain is falling hard, beating against the glass and onto the roof, and its steady drumming helps Athos get a hold on his emotions and speak. “Did I not always smile at you this way?”

“No,” Aramis whispers, “you did not.”

Athos lifts his head and brushes a kiss to his temple. “If that is indeed the case then I am sorry my friend.” He brings his free hand down to Aramis’ back and strokes it over the warm fabric of his shirt. “You make me just as happy now as you did before – I cherish you just as much – and it makes me sad to think that I ever hid that from you.”

Aramis clings to him and buries his face against his chest, and Athos closes both arms around him to hold him safe. Holding Aramis makes it easier to breathe, somehow, makes it easier to speak, “My smiles belong to you just as much as they belong to Porthos.”

Aramis makes a tiny noise against his chest, helpless and overwhelmed. “Athos.”

Athos swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, fighting a silent battle with himself while he strokes soothing hands down Aramis’ back. It is never difficult for him to find the right words, the problem lies in voicing them. “Half of my happiness belongs to you,” he says eventually – softly, despite the force with which the words break out of his chest.

Aramis lifts his head then, and kisses him – desperate and needy, but also terribly tender, all soft lips and hesitant pressure.

Athos brings one hand up to his neck to steady him, and then he kisses him back, just as soft, almost innocent even, but giving in once Aramis’ tongue glides over his lips and asks for more.

Aramis whines when their tongues brush against each other, pushes his whole body closer to Athos’, and moves on top of him. Athos moans and presses his head back into the pillow, intent on not breaking their kiss. He closes his arms tighter around Aramis, enjoys his closeness and his warmth, and relaxes into it.

Aramis is half hard against him, has spread his legs over Athos’ body and is moving his hips in circling little pushes. Athos moves his hands to take a hold of them and guide their movement, and their kiss turns open-mouthed and greedy for a moment, before they calm down and time seems to slow.

It is always like this, with Aramis, the flames always burning up bright the moment they touch, all-consuming and very nearly impossible to contain.

Athos loves it, loves it just as much as he loves sharing quiet kisses with Porthos. It is different, but then, so is Aramis – Aramis, who suddenly breaks their kiss and pushes his face into the crook of Athos’ neck, gasping against his skin. “I … I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.”

He is keeping his hips still as well, and Athos brushes his right hand over the swell of Aramis’ ass without thinking. “Why are you apologizing?”

Aramis moans and pushes his hips back and into Athos’ touch. “I just wanted … to be … I just wanted to be close to you.”

“You are,” Athos says quietly. “Are you not enjoying it? Would you rather that I do not touch you in this manner?”

“Of course I enjoy it,” Aramis whispers, “Athos, please …”

He is whispering his name as though he was afraid of breaking it, and Athos rolls them onto their sides and brushes a chaste kiss to Aramis’ lips. “Like this?”

Aramis is staring up at him out of wide, anxious eyes, and Athos’ brows pull into a concerned frown. “Aramis?”

“I,” Aramis licks his lips and evades Athos’ gaze, “I thought you wanted –“

Athos gently brushes the hair out of his face. “This is precisely what I want. You are … you are precisely what I want.”

Aramis’ breath hitches and he clings to Athos, hides his face against Athos’ chest, just as a log breaks in the hearth, emitting sparks and sending them flying into the room. They die on the wooden floor, and Athos brushes another kiss to Aramis’ temple. “Now tell me what you want.”

“You,” Aramis says, his voice muffled against Athos’ chest. “Only you.”

Athos smiles. “I am going to tell Porthos you said that.” He ruffles Aramis’ hair, and just like that the dangerous moment is over, all tension cut, bleeding out into what little space is left between them.

Aramis relaxes against him and sighs, nuzzles his face into Athos’ shirt. “He should be back by now.”

Athos hums and twists a strand of Aramis’ hair around his finger. “Perhaps he has met a friend.”

Aramis sighs and burrows into him like a cat. Athos closes his eyes, and pushes his head back into the cushion beneath it, tries not to worry about those dangerous moments that keep creeping into his interaction with Aramis.

Instead he focuses on Aramis’ closeness, and on his tendency to use Athos’ body as blanket or pillow. Aramis can never be close enough, neither to him, nor to Porthos.

The endearment Porthos has bestowed on Aramis is certainly more than fitting, Athos thinks, and the way Aramis reacts when Porthos calls him kitten speaks for itself.

Porthos almost always does, when they are alone, his voice going warm and loving, just as caressing as his touch. Athos could never do that, could never voice his feelings the way Porthos does, and certainly not the way Aramis does, telling them he loves them at every opportunity.

So far Porthos and Aramis have not remarked on it, have not yet complained that Athos never tells them, that he never says the words.

Athos can only hope that they know – that they know how much they mean to him, that he does not mean to hurt them by his silence.

Porthos chooses this moment to barge into the room, bringing cold air and gallons of rain water with him. He kicks the door shut behind him and walks over to the warmth of the hearth. “Sorry for takin’ so long, I met Constance at the baker’s and walked her home.” He carefully places the food he brought with him on the low window sill, and proceeds to throw off his hat and jacket, hurriedly followed by his boots. “Her idiot of a husband’s been squanderin’ money again – I just wanna run that useless ferret face-first into a tree!”

“Ah, you sound like a fish-wife, my dear Porthos,” Aramis informs him with a fond grin.

Athos is frowning. “Do they owe very much?”

A frustrated growl leaves Porthos’ throat. “She’s managin’ – you know her.”

He is soaked; the water has gotten into his hair and shirt, pulling it across his shoulders and turning the linen see-through. He looks rather appealing like this, Athos has to admit.

“Come to bed,” Athos tells him quietly, amazed at how rapidly his arousal flares back up at the sight of Porthos in wet linen, “you will get sick.”

Just like that Porthos is grinning, and the warmth in his eyes rivals that of the fire in the hearth. “I don’t get sick so easily, love.”

“Allow Athos his ploys to get you naked, Porthos,” Aramis leers, “not every man can be as outspoken as you.”

“True enough,” Porthos replies, and peels his trousers off his long legs. His undergarments seem to have gotten wet as well, are clinging to his thighs in a way that is positively indecent. The fire at his back shines through the fabric where it does not cling to Porthos’ body, and the effect is … it is –

Next to Athos, Aramis takes a deep lungful of air, “I … he –”

“Yes,” Athos agrees hoarsely.

Porthos looks up at them, and the way he straightens and squares his shoulders makes his shirt cling to his torso in a way that leaves Athos breathless. “What?”

“Oh God,” Aramis groans, “he doesn’t even _know_.”

Porthos shifts, and the linen moulds itself to his stomach, outlines his muscles and navel, and the hem of his undergarments – and everything below. “Know what?”

Athos has seen him completely naked countless times, he knows every inch of Porthos’ body, has touched and kissed it, and memorized its warmth. This … this is different.

The linen hides just enough of Porthos to turn what is already appealing into a flawless masterpiece, tempting and seductive, hinting at forbidden pleasures.

“Come to bed, Porthos,” Athos urges, sounding rather strained, and Porthos tilts his head, the expression on his face boyish and innocent in its confusion.

“What’s this now? I thought you two wanted to get some more sleep?”

“This is insufferable,” Aramis mutters, and then he is out of the bed, has closed the distance between him and Porthos in a few impatient steps.

Athos expects him to grab Porthos by the hand, possibly the shirt, and drag him towards the bed. Instead Aramis goes down on his knees in front of Porthos, and falls into him – presses his face into the wet linen covering Porthos’ belly, and groans. “God be my witness: This man has ruined me.”

His voice is muffled against Porthos’ body, but Athos has no trouble hearing the desperate arousal in it. He swallows thickly and watches as Aramis nuzzles into Porthos, as he brings his hands up to spread his fingers over Porthos’ thighs and digs them into the linen covering the dark skin.

Porthos is holding himself still, and his expression has morphed into one of surprise and interest. He looks down at Aramis with a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his left brow is raised in gentle amusement. “That’s a recurrin’ theme with you, kitten.”

Aramis moans and spreads his fingers wider over Porthos’ thighs. He lifts his head to look up at Porthos, lets his eyes travel over the expanse of his groin, stomach and chest, and swallows. “Ah, but you have no idea what the sight of you in this state does to me.”

“I’m gettin’ there,” Porthos murmurs, and reaches out to cup Aramis’ cheek, strokes his thumb over his flushed skin. When he looks up to gaze at Athos he catches him staring, and his eyes turn dark and knowing. “You too, love?”

“Yes,” Athos admits softly, his voice lured out of his throat by Porthos’ eyes; it is low and scratchy, and Athos nearly fails to recognize himself in it.

Porthos bites his lip and nods. “Shall I keep the shirt on this time, love?”

“Yes,” Athos says again, breathless, and Aramis sighs, closes his eyes and turns his face into Porthos’ hand, kisses his palm.

Porthos returns his attention to him, and brushes his thumb over Aramis’ slightly parted lips. “Come on up, kitten, you can’t be comfortable on your knees on the floor.”

“But the view is so nice down here,” Aramis murmurs. Athos can hear the smile in his voice, so he smiles as well.

“Your eyes are closed, my little fool,” Porthos rumbles, gently teasing, and pulls Aramis up, brings him over to the bed and pushes him down to sit on its edge. “I assume you two want my bottom half naked, at least?”

His tone is playful, but his voice is rough, and the linen does not hide the fact that he is by now aroused as well. “I think I want you two naked first, though. How about that?”

He looks at Athos and tilts his head. “Off with your shirt, love.” His tone is commanding enough that it sends a shiver through Athos, tingling and sharp.

It has been weeks since Athos let himself fall and succumbed to his need to be dominated, but the moment never seemed right. It does not seem right now either, with Aramis turning to him, his expression eager and longing. “May I?”

“Of course,” Athos says, and moves onto his knees to make matters easier. Aramis moves to kneel in front of him, and pulls the fabric over Athos’ head – brushes his fingers through Athos’ hair afterwards, and smoothes it back down.

“Thank you,” Athos says softy, and Aramis leans in for a kiss, sweet and tender. It is always easier for them to remain calm and in control when Porthos is there, when his presence steadies them and keeps the flames at bay.

Athos divests Aramis of his shirt as soon as they part, and they undress each other under Porthos’ eyes. Athos is surprised to realize that Aramis’ hands are just as unsteady as his own, and when he looks up into Aramis’ face he finds his eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide, jade-black.

“I’m sure you two have never reacted like this to me gettin’ a little wet,” Porthos says quietly, and they turn around as one to look at him. Athos hears Aramis take a deep breath, and then he is moving forward and towards the edge of the bed, reaches out his hand to Porthos’ groin.

Porthos catches him, lifts Aramis’ hand to his mouth and kisses his fingertips, smiles when Aramis fails to contain a moan. “Not so hasty, kitten. I want you to do this together.”

He lifts his gaze to look at Athos, and beckons him closer with a smile. “If that’s alright with you, love?”

“Yes,” Athos says, his voice smooth over his tumultuous pulse, “of course.”

He moves to kneel beside Aramis on the bed, and puts his hand into Porthos’ when he offers it to him. For a moment Porthos holds both their hands, Aramis’ left and Athos’ right, brushes his thumbs over their knuckles as they kneel side by side before him on the bed, completely naked.

Athos watches his eyes turn dark, and he wants so much to push his face into Porthos’ body, wants to beg him to make use of him; but Aramis is right there, his need just as palpable as Athos’ own; so he gets a hold of himself and swallows his desire, keeps it tightly bound and hides it away.

“Alright then,” Porthos says above him, and Athos can feel Aramis shiver next to him – so he takes the hand Porthos is not holding and entwines their fingers. Aramis squeezes his hand and leans into him, and Porthos chuckles. “I don’t think I’m ready for this – you two are givin’ me palpitations right now.”

Athos lowers his head and smiles to himself.

He cannot really blame Porthos, he thinks, not with the way he can taste his own heartbeat in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain prattles against the windowpanes with calming steadiness, an endless drumming of water against glass. Athos closes his eyes for a moment, tries to focus on the rain instead of the beating of his own heart, pushing his blood through his veins fast enough to make him dizzy.

It feels peculiar to be kneeling on the bed like this: next to Aramis, both of them naked and longing for Porthos in a way that feels very nearly like addiction.

It is as though they feed each other’s need just by being close to each other. Athos can feel Aramis’ rapid pulse in his hand, gently brushes his thumb over Aramis’ wrist.

“Come on then,” Porthos says above them, “get me out of my unmentionables, will ya.”

He lowers their hands down towards his groin and pushes them beneath his shirt, hooks their fingers beneath the hem of his undergarments – and lets go.

Athos immediately feels as though he has lost something – a vital connection – but the next moment Porthos’ hand is in his hair, gentle and warm, and Athos takes a deep breath. He still feels unsteady, out of focus and drifting; so he looks up.

Athos lifts his eyes to Porthos’ face and finds him smiling, warm and affectionate, anchoring Athos just by being there. It is easy to smile back, to reach inside himself and allow his love for this man to show on his face.

“Such a beauty,” Porthos murmurs, combs his fingers through Athos’ hair and steps a little closer to the bed.

It is still difficult for Athos to accept it when Porthos or Aramis compliment him in this manner, and his first instinct is to evade Porthos’ eyes. But Porthos’ has a gentle hold on his hair that keeps his chin up – so all Athos does is lean into his touch and allow the blush to rise to his cheeks as he loses himself in Porthos’ gaze.

Next to Athos, Aramis moves his fingers, pushes Porthos’ wet shirt a little higher on his stomach, and Athos springs into action as well.

They unlace Porthos’ undergarments with a few practised movements, and Athos bites his lip when his fingers brush against Aramis’ on Porthos’ skin, closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.

It is too much.

This … this is just too much. Maybe he should not have taken the bandana off earlier. He misses the focus it provides him with, the faint echo of Porthos’ calm.

“You alright, love?” Porthos asks him, a touch of concern in his voice, and Athos nods and reopens his eyes.

“I am alright.”

Aramis has been busy, has loosened the lacing of Porthos’ undergarments and is carefully pushing the wet linen down his thighs – one handed, since Athos is still holding on to his other hand, his thumb brushing over Aramis’ pulse, back and forth, again and again.

Athos is still not used to how quiet Aramis can get during these moments, how focused on touch alone he becomes, and when Aramis hesitates and stills for a heartbeat or two, Athos brings their hands forward and gently places Aramis’ on Porthos thigh, takes a deep breath.

He cannot keep himself under control for much longer, not like this, not if he remains kneeling next to Aramis.

So he moves backward, towards the head of the bed and settles down where he has the best view of both Porthos, and Aramis’ profile.

As soon as Athos pulls away from them, Aramis and Porthos still immediately, and when Aramis turns to look at him, the expression on his face is caught between worry and guilt, “Did I –“

“I would like to watch,” Athos says, surprised by how even his voice comes out of his mouth. “If I may.”

Porthos’ brows lower into a slight frown, but he nods. “Of course. If that’s what you wish.”

“I do,” Athos says, glad that it isn’t a lie. He enjoys watching Aramis and Porthos together, and right this moment nothing could be better to calm his tumultuous pulse. “Please continue.”

Aramis regards him for a little while longer, eyes burning, his expression strangely unreadable. Porthos looks at him as well, his dark eyes expressive as ever, telling Athos that they will talk about this once they get a moment alone.

Athos knows Porthos well enough to be aware that Porthos will fabricate such a moment himself should he have to. Porthos may not be one to push, but he does not stay silent either.

He worries about Athos and takes care of him, whether Athos wants him to or not.

So Athos manages a weak smile, and inclines his head in compliance.

Only then does Porthos lift his hand to Aramis’ cheek, brushes his thumb over his cheekbone. “Come, kitten, I’m gettin’ cold.”

Aramis is still looking at Athos with that same unreadable expression, but he turns back towards Porthos now, and leans forward to nuzzle into his body.

Porthos lets him, lifts his hand to brush his fingers through Aramis’ hair, patient and gentle, and Athos watches Aramis’ body relax under Porthos’ touch. Even when Aramis shifts to brush a kiss to Porthos’ left thigh, Porthos remains unmoving, and only the gleam in his eyes tells Athos how much he enjoys what Aramis is doing to him.

Porthos is still comparatively clothed, is still wearing his shirt and his smallclothes, because Aramis never went further than to push them down his thighs.

Aramis keeps kissing the skin he has exposed, moves his head from Porthos’ left leg to his right, keeps kissing the sensitive skin on the inside of Porthos’ thighs, careful not to leave marks, careful not to scratch Porthos with his beard – to provide nothing but pleasure. He is holding up Porthos’ shirt with his right hand, while he’s keeping himself steady with his left on Porthos’ hip, all his attention on the man in front of him.

It looks tender, the way Aramis is treating Porthos, tender and intimate, and Athos relaxes into the bedding as he watches them.

“You’re bein’ obsessive,” Porthos tells Aramis after a while, shifting his stance. He is fully hard by now, leaking at the tip, and Athos stares at him without quite meaning to, lips parted. It has been so long since he last sucked Porthos’ cock, since Porthos _used_ him. “I thought you wanted to get me into bed.”

Aramis spreads his fingers over Porthos’ skin, his own pale in contrast, looks up at him and smiles. “But you look so very appealing in wet linen, my dear Porthos.”

“You couldn’t have noticed this in summer?” Porthos replies with a fond grin, and Aramis grins back with a twinkle in his eyes, playful all of a sudden.

“I didn’t know you’d let me get away with this in summer.”

With these words he pushes Porthos’ undergarments the remaining way down his legs, and allows Porthos’ shirt to fall down over his hips. The fire in the hearth outlines Porthos’ body beneath the fabric, and Aramis moves closer towards the edge of the bed when Porthos steps out of his smallclothes, kicks them to the side.

Nobody says anything for a long moment, and then Aramis sighs, and leans back, spreads his thighs a little wider, his own arousal on display for everyone to see. “I could look at you forever.” He turns his head to look at Athos, “He’s indecently perfect, isn’t he?”

Athos swallows against a sudden lump in his throat, and manages to hold Aramis’ gaze. “He certainly presents a rather appealing picture.”

Aramis smiles at him, almost teasing, and when he turns back to Porthos, Athos feels a little lighter, less constricted, somehow.

He watches Aramis lift Porthos’ shirt once more, and when Aramis leans forward this time, his lips are parted, his eyes hooded. He closes his right hand around Porthos’ cock, places his left on Porthos’ hip, and takes him into his mouth.

Porthos’ eyes go dark, and his muscles twitch beneath his skin, but he does not move, except for the hand that caresses Aramis’ hair.

Athos stares at both their faces: at Porthos, steady and fond, looking down at Aramis with love in his eyes; and Aramis, lost in what he is doing, lips stretched wide around Porthos’ cock, concentrated and needy all at once, his fingers tangled in Porthos’ shirt.

Aramis is moving his head back and forth, moaning around the cock in his mouth, and Athos sees Aramis’ hips twitch, his own cock curving up between his thighs, dripping pre-come.

Athos remembers suddenly how it was, sucking Porthos’ cock on that first night, how the sensation filled his head and senses, and he wonders if it is the same for Aramis, if he enjoys being of use just as much as Athos does.

It almost looks like it, and the thought fills Athos with heat, even though he cannot believe that Aramis would enjoy being someone’s dog the way that Athos does. He is missing Porthos’ voice, suddenly, telling Aramis that he is doing good, that he looks so pretty sucking cock.

Athos bites his lip, holding the words back, but they flood his mind and pile up in his throat, and after a while he feels as though he cannot breathe properly if he does not let them out.

Aramis certainly looks beautiful like this, all flushed and needy; Athos moves closer to him without quite meaning to, and puts his hand on the small of Aramis’ back, enjoys his warmth, the coiled strength beneath the skin.

Aramis chokes out another moan when Athos touches him, and Athos looks up at Porthos, silently asking for permission.

“Are you enjoyin’ yourself, love?” Porthos asks, his rough voice honeyed with arousal, “do you like watchin’ us?”

“Yes,” Athos says, and he very nearly fails to recognize his own voice, too hot and too cold all at once, its origin the dark place deep inside his chest he only ever shows to Porthos, “he looks so good on his knees for you.”

Aramis’ lashes flutter shut at the words, and he whines, and takes Porthos a little deeper.

“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?” Porthos murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips, and he looks at Athos, a curious expression on his face, “as do you, love. The two of you’re really spoilin’ me.”

Athos shivers and strokes his hand over Aramis’ back without quite noticing; while Porthos resumes talking, his fingers suddenly tight in Aramis’ hair, pulling him in as he is fucking Aramis’ mouth, making Aramis squirm on the edge of the bed. Aramis is visibly desperate to touch himself, but unable to with the way he has to cling to Porthos’ hips to prevent himself from falling over.

“Did you have some fun without me before I came home?” Porthos asks, his eyes still on Athos, dark and warm and _fierce_ , suddenly. “Because I find it hard to believe that you got this riled up just from seein’ my linen gettin’ a little wet.”

Aramis whines, desperate and breathless, and Athos moves to kneel between Aramis’ legs, trapping his own cock between the two of them as he presses into him from behind. “All we did was kiss,” he states, blushing, although he is speaking nothing but the truth.

Aramis gasps and pushes back against him, shameless and beautiful in his arousal, and Athos reaches around him and takes him in hand. “It really was the sight of you that –“

Aramis rubs his ass against Athos’ cock, stealing his voice for a moment as his mind goes blank, and Porthos chuckles. “Is he distractin’ you, love?”

Athos bites his lip and nods, and Porthos strokes his fingers through Aramis’ hair, and eases up on his thrusts, “You hear that, kitten? You’re so pretty you’re makin’ our Athos all speechless.”

Aramis pushes back against Athos once more at the words, intent behind the movement, and Athos’ fingers tighten around his cock quite automatically.

Aramis never takes his mouth away from Porthos, but his attention on him turns sloppy as he rocks back into Athos, and his whines and moans send hot shivers down Athos’ spine.

“Are you close, kitten?” Porthos whispers, sounding strained, “do you need to let go?”

Aramis attempts a nod, and Porthos pulls back and lets his shirt fall down over his hips, covers his arousal. He crouches down in front of Aramis, kisses his swollen lips and takes possession of his mouth. Athos watches Porthos reach out his hand to tangle his fingers with his own, and together they make Aramis come, hold him as he shakes apart between them.

Porthos waits until Aramis’ breathing is not quite so hasty anymore, and only then does he stand up again, puts his hands on Aramis’ shoulders and gently pushes him back into Athos.

He lifts his shirt and closes his hand around himself, and Athos watches like one mesmerized as Porthos brings himself off, and covers his hand in his release, allowing a few drops to stain the linen of his shirt.

He steps away from the bed to clean himself up, and Aramis presses closer into Athos as they both watch his progress across the room and back towards them.

“Can I come to bed now?” Porthos asks, deeply content, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “Or do you need me to pose some more for you?”

Aramis slowly and tentatively rubs his ass back against Athos, and when he speaks, he sounds torn between exhaustion and simple honesty. “I fear Athos still needs to look at you a bit, my dear Porthos.”

Porthos grins and leans down to kiss the both of them, first the one, then the other.

Athos’ hands have automatically come up to steady Aramis, and he holds on to his shoulders while he is kissing Porthos, presses his fingers into the warm skin and rubs his cock up and down Aramis’ cleft until Porthos breaks their kiss.

“I refuse to be kept standin’ for your viewin’ pleasure,” Porthos tells them, fond but decisive. “I’m tired and I’m wet, and I wanna lie down now and cuddle, so come here, both of you.”

He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor next to the bed. Aramis sighs, but if he feels any disappointment, he does not voice it. Instead he allows Porthos to lie down and stretch out on the bed, comes willingly when Porthos pulls him close, and burrows into him with another sigh, sounding utterly content.

Athos can feel Aramis’ eyes on him as Porthos pulls him close as well, as he curls his left arm around Athos and keeps him pressed against his body, allows Athos to rub his cock against his hip.

Athos’ arousal does not so much flare up at the contact as settle into him like glowing embers. It is easier to control himself when Porthos is holding him in this manner, so he rests his head on Porthos’ shoulder, and closes his eyes.

“This is nice,” Aramis comments from Porthos’ other side, “I like this.”

Porthos chuckles and kisses his hair. “Yeah, I know. You keep tellin’ us.”

“Because it’s nice,” Aramis insists. His voice sounds different, when he raises it once more, tentative, “don’t you think so, Athos? Don’t you think it’s nice?”

“Very,” Athos says quietly, without opening his eyes. Porthos’ heartbeat is steady beneath his ear, and all he wants to do is listen to it until he falls asleep.

This is it. This is what he has been craving all morning. His arousal is of secondary importance. It is of no importance at all.

He misses only one thing now.

Athos opens his eyes and looks over at Aramis, reaches out to take his hand and link their fingers. Aramis very nearly stares when Athos touches him, but then he relaxes into it, and rewards Athos with a smile that warms him to his core.

“There you go,” Porthos murmurs, audibly satisfied, “you want us to give you a hand as well, love?”

Athos smiles and sighs. “I do not think so, no. I am perfectly content the way I am.”

She never allowed him to ignore his arousal in this manner, never let him enjoy it without putting it at the centre of attention, but Porthos merely kisses his temple. “Very well then.”

“But what about –“ Aramis starts, just to tease Porthos, Athos can hear it in his voice. He smiles when Aramis’ question ends in a yelp, and Porthos repeats his command.

“Go to sleep.”

“I bet you never pinch Athos,” Aramis murmurs mutinously.

“No, he never annoys me the way you do,” Porthos agrees pleasantly.

Athos can hear Aramis take a deep breath to say something in answer to that, and silently squeezes Aramis’ hand.

“I love you,” is what Aramis says then, soft and vulnerable.

“We love you too,” Porthos replies, calm and content.

Athos can only squeeze Aramis’ hand once more, unable to get out a single sound. He wants to tell them, wants to say it, but even when he does as much as think about it, he always hears her voice inside his head, answering him, telling him she loves him too, that she’ll never love anyone as much as she loves him.

That she will always be there.

So he keeps quiet, and does not say it.

“What is it, love?” Porthos asks him, reading his face like he always does. “What’s botherin’ you?”

“The past,” Athos says quietly, does not add anything. He does not have to.

“That’s over and done with,” Porthos states calmly, and Athos presses closer to him, clings to him a little harder, and manages to relax. “Do you want us to take your mind into the present?”

Athos peeks one eye open and blinks at him, encounters a fond grin. “Doing what, precisely?”

“Somethin’ creative,” Porthos says ominously. “Aramis and me, we’ll think of somethin’.”

Athos smiles even before Aramis opens his mouth to speak.

“No, we won’t,” he murmurs, and brushes his fingertips over Athos’ knuckles, “you just pinched me, I’m not doing anything for you.”

“Maybe,” Porthos says slowly, “but you’ll do _anythin’_ for Athos – isn’t that right, kitten?”

Athos cannot help but look at Aramis, who flushes in answer to the question, but does not volunteer anything else. His reaction alone is sufficient to send a warm shiver down Athos’ back; it locks his breath inside his lungs and sends an answering flush up his face and chest.

“Stop teasing him,” is all he manages to say, and his voice is rough, as if he’s been shouting all morning.

Aramis’ eyes meet his for a moment, and then they are both staring down at Porthos’ chest, holding on to the other’s hand as if it were a lifeline.

Porthos huffs and pulls them both a little bit closer towards him. “Sometimes it’s as though you don’t even know.” He sighs and strokes his hand over Athos’ back. “Are the blankets on the floor again?”

“… Yes,” Aramis admits after a moment of silence, “they are.”

“Get a few up here, will ya,” Porthos tells him in a suddenly rather drowsy voice, “my hands are kinda full.”

Aramis kisses his chest and nuzzles him a bit before complying to his wish, and Athos helps him to spread a few blankets over the three of them, until they are all sufficiently covered. He grabs Aramis’ hand again as soon as they are done.

It is still rather early in the morning, and the rain is still falling outside, is still drumming against the window, and Athos finds that he is indeed rather tired.

He falls asleep with his head on Porthos’ shoulder, holding Aramis’ hand, and a sense of belonging so strong inside his chest that it encases his very bones.

 

When Athos wakes up, Porthos has curled himself around him in sleep, protective and warm. His hand is resting on Athos’ chest, rather close to his heart, and the way he is breathing against Athos’ neck is both immensely pleasant and tickles a little.

Athos smiles and turns onto his side, to move still a little closer to him. Then he stills and blinks. Something, or rather someone, is clearly missing. “Aramis?”

Porthos hums when Athos raises his voice, but does not wake up, and Athos tries to lift his head. He does not get very far with the way he is half buried beneath Porthos’ tall frame. “Aramis?”

“You’ll wake him,” Aramis replies from behind Porthos’ back, his voice deliberately soft. He sounds rather muffled. “What is it?”

“Are you cold?” Athos asks, because he has known Aramis for years, and he knows how many blankets the man owns. “Do you want in the middle?”

Nothing but silence answers him for a long moment.

When Aramis speaks, he sounds shy and unsure, adjusts his cautionary statement from before. “We’ll wake Porthos.”

“He’d want you to be warm as well,” Athos says, because it’s nothing but the truth and Porthos isn’t one to complain about being woken at such an hour as this. It must be around midday after all.

Aramis does not answer, and Athos frowns, and carefully pushes Porthos onto his back, to be able to get a look at Aramis’ face. He seems to have curled into himself, huddled beneath his one blanket, and the eyes peeking at Athos over the rim of the fabric look startlingly apprehensive. “I’m fine.”

“You are cold,” Athos corrects him, “Come here.”

Aramis does not move; instead, Porthos wakes up. “What’s goin’ on?” he mumbles, blinking one eye open, “What are you two whisperin’ about?”

Aramis does not volunteer anything, so Athos speaks up for him. “He is cold and refuses to move into our midst.”

Porthos grunts and turns onto his side, grabs Aramis and his blanket, and rolls them both around, dumping Aramis between himself and Athos. “There you are.”

“Thank you,” Athos says with a fond smile, and moves closer to Aramis, lifts the corner of his own blanket to get Aramis beneath it as well. A draft of cold air assaults him, and he shivers, and pulls Aramis into his arms.

“I was fine where I was,” Aramis mumbles into his blanket, but he does press closer to Athos, and cannot quite suppress a relieved sigh.

“You were cold where you were,” Athos drawls, and the bed shakes a little when Porthos rolls over and half on top of Aramis, wonderfully warm if somewhat suffocating.

Aramis wheezes, but does not complain, and for a moment, everything is silent.

Then Porthos grunts and huddles deeper into the blanket. “Your feet are cold.”

“Sorry,” Aramis whispers, receives a kiss to the neck for his troubles.

“You could’ve woken me,” Porthos growls. “You always used to wake me when we were out on a mission, what stopped you now?”

“I was fine,” Aramis insist, and Porthos takes a deep breath, and pretends he did not hear him.

“Was it because I was cuddlin’ Athos?”

Aramis remains silent.

Athos kisses his forehead. “I do not begrudge you his warmth, Aramis.”

“I know,” Aramis whispers.

“Evidently not,” Athos states dryly.

“You looked content the way you were,” Aramis says quietly, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Next time you do,” Porthos grouses. “ _Before_ your feet turn to ice.”

“Yes, yes, stop with your complaining,” Aramis replies, and Athos can hear the smile in his voice, “it’s not as if you ever get cold.”

“With the way you’re pressin’ your feet against my calves?” Porthos growls, “Of course I’m gettin’ cold – what do you take me for, a human stove?”

“Something like it,” Aramis teases him, “you blow your lid often enough.”

“I’ll blow _your_ lid,” Porthos threatens, and Aramis hums happily and cuddles closer towards him.

“Please do.”

“You’re insatiable,” Porthos tells him in a fond voice. “Let’s at least have breakfast first.”

“You’re the one who’s insatiable,” Aramis mutters, and Athos closes his eyes and smiles into Aramis’ hair.

He loves these men, he truly does.

“I do like to eat,” Porthos admits with a grin, sitting up, and allows the blanket to drop off his shoulders. “Blast it, the fire’s gone out.”

He gets up and – since his own is still wet – goes over to the cupboard to put one of Aramis’ shirts on before he turns his attention on bringing the fire back to life. Aramis burrows closer towards Athos in the meantime, and Athos rubs his hands over Aramis’ back, up and down, again and again, until Aramis is very nearly purring with satisfaction, and the light of a fire once more illuminates the room.

Porthos slips his undergarments on and grabs some more blankets and furs from the floor to spread them over Aramis and Athos, before he retrieves the food from the windowsill and brings it over to the bed.

By then it is warm enough in the room for Aramis to sit up without fear of exposing himself to any icy draughts, but he still shivers and pulls his shoulders up, until Athos drapes one of the furs around him. “Better?”

Aramis’ cheeks are rosy from the receding cold in the room, and his eyes look very bright when he smiles at Athos, “Much, thank you.”

Porthos hands them the bread and cheese he brought and settles down at the foot of the bed, his long legs folded beneath him. “So – what are we gonna do with the rest of our day?”

“Nothing,” Aramis says with a resolute undertone. “I’m not going outside in this weather if I don’t have to.”

Athos looks out the window and up at the grey sky, its clouds still heavy and dark. He likes rain, has always enjoyed the way the earth would smell fresh and clean afterward, how it brought people together indoors while it lasted.

He remembers sitting at his mother’s feet, both of them reading by the light of a candle, while Thomas complained of boredom, and begged Athos to play at swords with him.

Athos always gave in to him, although he preferred a good book to swordplay even when the sun was shining.

“Fair enough,” Porthos rumbles, bringing Athos’ mind back into the present, and cuts a generous wedge off the cheese, “we can stay in bed, cuddle some more – I’d like that.”

Athos looks at him, at his tousled curls and the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and accepts the cheese Porthos hands him with a grateful smile.

His present could not be more different from his past, Athos thinks. The man he has become barely resembles the boy he once was, has none of his innocence left, none of his pure heart. Even the new family he has found for himself could not be more unlike the one he has lost. This does not mean it is not a good family, though.

Athos takes in the width of Porthos’ shoulders and the scar on his face, and can admit to himself that he couldn’t have found a better master for himself.

Porthos is strong and fierce and dangerous; he is soft-hearted and kind and sweet, and it is the balance of his sins and his virtues that fascinates Athos: the expectation to experience violence at his hands, only to meet with the warming realization that Porthos would never hurt where he loves, that he would never hurt anyone without a reason.

The day Athos looked at Porthos and saw his smile behind the gruff exterior will forever be ingrained in his memory. Because something in Athos smiled back, and has never stopped smiling since.

Athos blinks and turns his head when Aramis moves closer to him, and finds delight in the way Aramis seems to soak up his presence, can never get enough of his touch.

If he is entirely honest with himself – and Athos always is – he must admit that he expected Aramis to gravitate more towards Porthos when all three of them are together.

Aramis never does.

But even while he seeks Athos’ proximity, Aramis is still hesitant in the way he touches Athos, still behaves in a manner that could be called shy, or nervous, even scared at times. Athos has no idea what he could do to make Aramis more comfortable, to show him that there is no need to be afraid.

It is not that he doesn’t enjoy the way Aramis touches him. It is merely that he does not particularly like the idea that Aramis is still not comfortable enough around Athos to be himself.

Athos wants Aramis to be happy – and he _is_ , most of the time Athos is almost sure about that – wants him to feel safe and loved, and forget the outside world while they are together.

It’s just that Aramis never … he does not tease Athos the way he used to, is always reverent and respectful, and sometimes Athos does not know what to do with that. It feels as though Aramis is removed from him in those moments, instead of closer, as though there is an invisible barrier between them Athos cannot breach.

That barrier never makes itself felt when Porthos is the target of Aramis’ affection. With him at least Aramis is the same he always was – so much in fact that Athos feels closer to Aramis when he is merely looking on … when he is not involved.

Athos takes a bite of his cheese and looks out the window and up at the sky once more – blinks when the touch of lips against his naked shoulder draws his attention back inside the room.

“You’re looking sad,” Aramis tells him, half earnest, half joking, and Athos feeds some cheese to him, to hide his startled feelings.

“The weather does not make you melancholy?” he says at last, and avoids looking at Porthos.

Porthos has developed the irritating habit to take one look at Athos and know when he is hiding something – and transport that knowledge back to Athos with another single look.

Athos loves him for it, although he probably should not.

“Ah, not while I’m under a proper roof, no,” Aramis replies, visibly surprised to be fed, but eagerly accepting of the food Athos supplies him with.

Athos smiles, almost despite himself. “That sounds surprisingly reasonable.”

“Ah, well, sometimes I surprise myself.” Aramis grins and blinks his lashes at Porthos until he feeds him as well. Athos watches them, the way he always does, warmth and happiness spreading inside him.

He really is so very lucky to have them.

Once they’ve all had their fill, Porthos gets up to feed some wood to the fire, and settles back down at the foot of the bed with one of Aramis’ books. It is one on healing plants, with explanations on how to make salves and concoctions, and Aramis warns him that he will probably find it rather boring, while he curls himself around Athos and very gingerly places his head in Athos’ lap.

He looks up at Athos once he is settled, again with an expression that speaks of hesitation and the fear to be rebuked, as if he only now realizes what he has done. Athos lifts his hand to brush some errand strands of hair out of Aramis’ face. “Porthos does not get bored as easily as you do.”

Aramis’ answering smile is soft and grateful as he leans into Athos’ touch. “I keep forgetting that.”

A grunting noise from the foot of the bed makes them look at Porthos, and his face is a study of frustrated curiosity. “Half of this is’n Latin.”

He looks downtrodden and disappointed, and Athos reaches his hand out for the book. “Let me see.”

Porthos immediately hands it over to him, his expression morphing into one of dawning hope, and Athos feels fond amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do you wish me to translate the words for you?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Porthos says, and his grin is infectious as always, grateful and enthusiastic all at once.

He moves to sit on Athos’ left side, and Aramis has to move as well, to not get underfoot – does so mumbling complaints and curses until they are finally lined up, excessively close to each other, with Porthos’ arm around Athos’ shoulders and Athos’ arm around Aramis’ waist to make sure no-one falls off the edge of the bed.

“This is wonderfully cosy,” Aramis remarks, and he sounds as though he means it, although the bed really is rather small for this kind of undertaking. Somehow they fit better into it while lying down.

Aramis manages to fall asleep against Athos’ shoulder while Athos translates the text for Porthos – teaching him some grammar while they’re at it. Porthos is always an attentive student, always ready to learn, eager to better himself. Athos has forgotten much over the years that only now slowly comes back to him, lured to light by Porthos’ questions; he finds that he enjoys teaching, that he enjoys imparting his knowledge on someone who is more than worthy of it.

They are still going over the text when Aramis wakes up again, and he smiles at them for some minutes before they realize he is awake. “I love that,” he tells them, still half-asleep, his voice slurred and rough, “you look so nice together – I’ve always loved looking at you when you went all scholarly with each other.” He grins fondly at Porthos. “Are you a proper doctor now?”

Porthos chuckles and shakes his head. “Nah, not really. But I do know what to give you when you’ve got a fever, so that’s somethin’ at least.”

Aramis agrees with a fond little smile – then he pouts his lips, and hesitates for a moment before he finally brings himself to speak. “I’m … my back is getting cold.”

They immediately move him into the middle of the bed, and it tugs at Athos, how surprised Aramis looks, how amazed that they do not make (too much) fun of him, but instead strive to take away his discomfort.

He is glad that Aramis spoke up this time, though – that he finally seems to realize that there is no danger in voicing his needs.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning comes with the kind of sunshine that peaks out from between black clouds, so determined to reach the earth that it seems all the brighter for its struggle.

It does not rain, but the sky looks far from promising, and they take their time getting ready, still tired and exhausted so early in the day. Athos does not ask Aramis and Porthos to hurry when they stop in the middle of getting dressed to exchange some kisses; instead he watches them, draws strength and comfort from the picture they present, standing in the middle of the room, with the grey light of morning barely adding colour to their skin.

Athos is feeling off-kilter this morning, not quite as warm as he could be, and he wonders if it is because he refrained from giving in yesterday yet again – because he has not been on his knees for Porthos ever since they took Aramis into their bed.

Aramis seems to be cold as well, presses into Porthos with his whole body and sighs when Porthos puts his arms around him and offers him his warmth.

They have always been like this, Athos realizes. Long before they came to kiss and treat each other as lovers, they were always close – Porthos always ready to enfold Aramis in his arms, Aramis always eager to press into him.

There was never any doubt as to whether the other would welcome physical closeness.

Athos is just glad he could help to get them what they wanted – that he could help make them happy.

In comparison to that it is of no importance at all that he cannot seem to let go and be Porthos’ dog when Aramis is around.

He smiles at them once they part, and manages to contain his surprise when they come to him to embrace him as well. He receives his share of good morning kisses with closed eyes and warmth in his chest – so grateful for this undeserved blessing.

 

Paris is a little busier this morning, but the streets are far from crowded. The air is humid and cold, and Porthos hands Athos his bandana while Aramis is locking the door behind them, steps closer once Athos has wrapped it around his neck and helps him with the knot.

Athos flushes beneath his touch as he always does, and when he looks up at Porthos, he encounters an earnest gaze, friendly, but rather determined, lower lip pushed out in a slight pout.

“What is it?” Athos asks, and Porthos blinks towards Aramis, and remains silent. _Later_ , his eyes say, and Athos’ heart beats a little faster inside his chest.

He had hoped Porthos had forgotten the incident on the previous day. He should have known better. Porthos does not forget; he never does.

For as long as Athos has known him, Porthos always had a way of remembering the _details_ , of seeing what others overlooked. He will make Athos talk, will make him _explain_ , and the very thought nearly makes Athos stagger when they start the walk towards the garrison.

Porthos reaches out and grabs his elbow, and Athos has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. Never before has it been so difficult for him to remain in control of himself while they are in public. Still he does not ask Porthos to let go.

Instead he fights a silent battle with himself, desperate to keep his need contained. It has never been like this, he realizes – instead of weaning himself from the craving for submission it only seems to grow the longer he goes without.

It was not like this after he’d lost her, when he had to go without for years, when he had decided that he would never fall so low ever again, and managed to hold on to that decision until the night he fell for Porthos.

Now, with Porthos as his master, Athos finds that he craves to fall to his knees in front of him more with every day that goes by.

He does not understand why.

Porthos is good to him – as is Aramis. They do not kiss and hold him only after he has been of service. They show him their affection freely, never make him work for it.

But still he wants to, still he craves the hand in his hair and the voice that tells him what to do.

Still he craves to be weak.

Athos is beginning to accept that while she may have been the one to unveil this blemish on his soul, she was not the one to instil it in him.

It seems it has always been there, just beneath the surface, hiding in the shadows until she coerced it out, until she bound and whipped it, and made it her slave. And while he missed her when she was gone, while he missed her touch, her voice and her warmth, he did not … he barely missed the shame and hurt she had brought into his life.

With Porthos he misses it even while they are together, although neither shame nor hurt are ever part of their encounter.

 

The yard is crowded when they arrive at the garrison. D’Artagnan is already there, is standing with the Captain, receiving his commands. Athos makes his way over to them, glad that his mind clears of worry and doubt the closer he gets to them – that he is able to hold his head high and wear his uniform with pride even now.

He could never forgive himself if it were otherwise – if he would ever fail to do his duty because of his shameful desires.

Both d’Artagnan and the Captain smile when they see him, and Treville speaks up once Athos is within earshot. “I just informed d’Artagnan of your duties for today. There has been a theft at one of the jewellers that supply the Court – the apprentice was severely injured. I want you four to look into it.”

Athos nods, the pressure on his chest easing up now that he has a purpose, something else to bend his thoughts to. He receives an address, and the Captain moves on to another group of musketeers to give the men their orders. Athos watches him for a moment, observes his progress across the yard before remembering d’Artagnan’s presence at his side. Once he turns his attention on the boy, Athos notices that he has narrowed his eyes at him, and that a slight worry has moved into his expression.

Apparently d’Artagnan is able to see on Athos’ face that he is fighting his demons more viciously than usual today – that he appears to be losing.

Athos swallows, and without thinking he lifts his hand to touch the bandana around his neck to steady himself. He can only hope that d’Artagnan is the only man in the yard apart from Aramis and Porthos who can read him so well.

He does not like the idea of being so very transparent.

Thankfully, the boy does not ask any questions, but remains quiet on the issue, and tilts his head. “Do we move out immediately?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, relaxing just a fraction. He lets go of the bandana, turns towards Porthos, musters what cool he can and drawls, “Breakfast has to wait, I fear.”

Porthos grunts, but does not say anything, and Aramis adjusts his hat, strokes his fingertips over the feather adorning it, “We can eat after we’ve made our enquiries – even he should survive until then.”

Porthos’ answering grin is all teeth, and Aramis winks at him. “Try not to bite anyone.”

Athos relaxes even more when Porthos adopts a pondering expression, draws strength from Porthos’ playful wink, “I’m not makin’ any promises.”

D’Artagnan grins and shakes his head at them, and Athos is very nearly able to smile. “Come on then, let us move out.”

They follow him out the garrison and into the streets, and Athos leaves it to Porthos to take them where they need to go by the fastest way.

Porthos knows the city better than anyone, is familiar with the slums and the quarters around the harbour, always knows how to find his way through the darkest alleys, no matter how many twists and turns they take. Since he has joined the musketeers he is striving to get to know the more affluent areas as well, and Athos is never surprised when their duties take them to a noble household and it turns out that Porthos is friendly with one of the servants.

Porthos’ penchant for making friends has served them well more than once.

They reach their destination far sooner than Athos thought they would, and for a moment he looks up at the sign above the door, stares at the shop window, declaring the establishment to belong to one Monsieur Duvall, Crown Jeweller. Everything seems to be in order.

“Well,” Aramis comments beside him, “they did not break in from this end.”

“Certainly not, no,” Athos agrees. The window is intact, as is the door – the lock does not even appear to be scratched.

“Maybe they have a back door,” d’Artagnan suggests quietly. “Do we go in?”

“Yes, we do,” Athos decides, and turns the handle to the front door, finding it open. The bell above it sounds somewhat tinny, and its ringing does not carry very far. It is rather dark inside the shop, and there is not a soul in sight. It is a small room, crowded with the four of them occupying its space, but even with the lack of illumination Athos can see that this has once been a prosperous establishment. The furniture is expensive but worn, as is the carpet leading into the private rooms.

Supplying the crown with jewellery used to pay better, it seems.

Nothing happens for a long moment in answer to their entrance, and Porthos opens the door again, moves it back and forth beneath its bell until a somewhat harassed sounding voice is heard from deeper inside the house. “Yes! I’m coming, I’m coming! Will you stop that please!”

Athos’ mouth quirks into an appreciative little smirk as Porthos closes the door very delicately, ringing the bell one last time.

A fat little man appears on the carpet leading to the private rooms – visibly startled when he finds his shop full of musketeers, but cautiously friendly nevertheless. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

“You mistake the matter, Monsieur,” Athos says politely. “We are here to help you. Are you the proprietor of this business?”

The man nods, but his nervousness does not abate.

“Very well then, Monsieur Duvall,” Athos says, “We were sent to restore your stolen property to you, if possible, and catch those who hurt your apprentice.”

“Oh, my poor Michel,” Duvall wails, apparently overcome with feeling, “those fiends – they nearly killed him!”

“I collect he survived the attack, that is good to hear,” Athos says soothingly. “May we talk to him? Did he tell you whether he has seen his attacker?”

“Ah, sadly not, no,” Duvall sighs, and Athos can see how very shaken he is. “They cut his throat, you see – the Doctor says it is a miracle that he is still alive!”

“I see,” Athos replies gravely, “lacking his testimony, I would appreciate it if you could tell us in detail everything you know. Were you the one to find him?”

“Yes, I was.” Duvall shudders and when he starts to talk, he does so rather hesitantly. He recounts his story haltingly, palpably uncomfortable with reliving his gruesome morning.

The others keep quiet and leave it to Athos to ask questions while Duvall leads them to the backroom, where he found Michel this morning. There is still blood on the wooden floor. It has spread out into a dark pool, has leaked into the gaps between the boards.

They take their leave of Monsieur Duvall half an hour later, supplied with a detailed description of the jewellery that was stolen – a headdress meant for the Queen, emeralds set in gold filigree – and leave his establishment out the back door. It is equally unscathed as the front entrance, its lock very much intact, and Athos raises a sceptical brow.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” Aramis says from his left, “but it looks to me as though Michel knew his attacker, and let them in.”

“And how generously they paid him back,” Porthos growls. “I hate this kinda thing.”

“Yes, you would’ve preferred Michel to have robbed his employer in collaboration with the vicious scoundrel, and for him to retire somewhere where it’s nice and warm all-year-round,” Aramis teases him. “Wouldn’t you.”

“That would’ve been better than this,” Porthos points out, referring to the pool of blood they just left behind. He sighs and looks at Athos. “What now? Are we gonna ask the neighbours if they saw anythin’?”

Athos smiles at him, albeit weakly. “You know the procedure. Take d’Artagnan with you.”

Porthos nods and gestures at the boy to follow him, and Aramis directs a bright smile at Athos. “I take it that leaves us two?”

“Very perceptive of you,” Athos drawls. “I shall leave the talking to you.”

An amused noise escapes Aramis’ throat, but he does not say anything in reply to this; instead he turns to the right, walks a few steps down the street, and knocks on the first door that presents itself to him.

Interrogating the neighbours takes about an hour. Athos is aware that it would take half as long if he conducted the interviews himself, but then they certainly would not get as many details as they do with the help of Aramis’ charm.

Athos stands back and watches him talk – watches the way Aramis manages to coax even the most hardened person into a state of friendly helpfulness.

Athos has always admired this side to Aramis: his ability to look at someone and find a crack to pour his charm into – to soothe with his voice and his touch in a manner that can be very nearly imperceptible if needed. Granted, often enough Aramis is about as subtle as a brick to the head. Athos likes that about him; it tickles his sense of humour as much as it touches his heart.

As much as he may try to be a refined gentlemen of taste and fashion, for Athos, more often than not, Aramis is no more than a boy who plays at being a romantic figure, performing heroic deeds … so in love with the idea of romance that it tints his perception of reality.

It is what attracts most of his lovers, Athos assumes, although he will never understand why people would choose an illusion, be it ever so sweet, over the truth.

He understands the appeal, yes. But he is also aware of the danger, knows it intimately. He prefers a solid reality by far.

Aramis’ tendency to lose himself in fairy tales is most certainly not what made Athos love him the way he does. What Athos loves about Aramis is his gift to find beauty and God’s love in something as simple as a daisy. Aramis will talk at length about the allure of gold and velvet, will describe costly fabrics and unattainable perfection, only to be rendered speechless by a farmer’s girl with a straw bonnet and a bright smile.

Aramis sees God’s love and beauty in everything, is able to find the right words to make it possible for others to see it as well. Sometimes the magic of his perception even works for Athos; although for him words were never as important as they seem to be to Aramis.

Nowadays it is decidedly easier for Athos to catch a glimpse at Heaven’s bounty than it used to be … He finds it in the eyes of his lovers: in the curve of their lips, the light and shadow playing over their skin.

A sin, no doubt, but Aramis insists that God would never condemn them for expressing their devotion. According to him it is a far bigger sin not to act on such a divine emotion as love.

Athos is half convinced Aramis makes his sermons on Godly principles up on the spot more often than not. The thought makes him smile, and Aramis, perceiving it, smiles as well, charms another piece of information out of the strict midwife who would not let them into her house, but kept them on the threshold and out in the cold to conduct their interview.

They emerge from the interrogation of the neighbours with the knowledge that Michel Bernard is a well-liked young man, friendly to a fault, with a slight tendency to squint. He has a very capable set of hands on him, not quite such a capable head, and is well treated by Monsieur Duvall, who sees in him the son he never had.

Porthos and d’Artagnan, when they meet them outside the butcher’s shop, bring a similar tale, with the addition of a girl who has been seen with Michel recently – a pretty young thing, people were wondering what she sees in Michel.

Athos’ heart clenches when he allows his mind to weave and expand the story behind Michel’s pretty friend – when he allows his cynical soul to seize upon the possible reason for the girl’s interest in such a simple boy. The ache in Athos’ chest in result to his roaming mind’s activities feels painfully familiar, settles around his neck like an iron collar, makes it hard to breathe.

He notices Porthos’ eyes on him and squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. “Do we know where to find her?”

“All we have is a name,” d’Artagnan says apologetically, “and only a first name at that: Felicia.”

“She’s a fair one, rather tall and a bit too thin,” Porthos supplies, his eyes still on Athos, intent, searching, “and accordin’ to the butcher’s wife, her dresses are simple, but well made. Proper and modest.”

This description does not match Athos’ first idea of the girl; but looks, as he has learned with such devastating results, can be deceiving. Clothing of any kind and appearance is easy to come by in a city where so many struggle to survive – even clothing that might not particularly fit the character and true nature of the person wearing it.

They dressed Aramis up as a priest once, that fact alone should be proof enough.

Athos takes a deep breath, and takes a hold of his wandering imagination. He is being rash about the girl’s involvement. They know nothing yet. Neither of the girl, nor of the nature of her relationship with Michel.

“You want me to ask around in the Court?” Porthos asks him, his timing excellent, his forehead creased in thoughtful lines. “If the girl’s a crook, Flea might know her … or at least of her.”

Flea is Queen of the Court of Miracles now, Athos knows, has taken Charon’s place and made it her own. She rules over thieves and beggars as though she was born for it, and Porthos has more than once remarked on how much easier his childhood might have been if there had been a Queen like her around. She is good to the children, takes care of them.

Still, Athos is reluctant to let Porthos go to her. He does not like the idea of him talking to Flea. He knows what happened the last time Porthos was with her; Porthos told him. “I will accompany you,” he says therefore, his voice sounding stilted and wooden to his own ears.

Porthos grins at him, fond but a little strained. “You don’t want me to be alone with her, eh? Afraid she’s gonna steal my purse again?”

Aramis clears his throat, and when Athos looks at him, the smile on his face looks forced. “Your purse,” Aramis says to Porthos, “yes my friend, that’s precisely the thing we’re afraid she’s going to make off with.”

Porthos huffs, and looks precariously close to rolling his eyes at Aramis. “She’s a strong woman, but I’m a bit too heavy for her to carry off, you daft bugger. Besides: she’s no interest in that.”

Aramis looks as though he wants to dispute that fact, and Athos clears his throat to forestall him. “You and d’Artagnan go back to Monsieur Duvall and ask him about this Felicia, and why he did not mention her to us,” he orders calmly. “Once you are finished, you may await us at _La Chatte Blanche_ – we will join you there in due time.”

Aramis turns his gaze on him, eyes wide and pleading, and Athos nods, being acutely aware of the meaning behind this expression. He will make sure that no harm of any kind befalls Porthos while they are in the Court. More he cannot promise.

Porthos is a free man – certainly free to make his own decisions, even if they include the return to a woman he has always loved.

 

They part from Aramis and d’Artagnan once more, and go separate ways.

From this affluent part of the city the walk to the Court is long and, at first, rather silent. Just when the buzzing of his own mind starts to grate on Athos’ nerves, Porthos clears his throat and thus, rather abruptly, stops the noise.

When Athos turns his head to look at him, Porthos is staring up at the grey sky, his features pulled into a frown. “You’re tense,” he says, so softly that only Athos could hear him even if the streets weren’t as empty as they are. “You’ve been tense for quite a while now, actually.” His voice is rough, and Athos can hear uncertainty and worry fighting for dominance in his tone – with worry coming out on top, as it always does with Porthos.

Porthos may not be certain that it is right of him to speak up and confront Athos with what is weighing on his mind, but he cannot simply keep quiet and ignore the matter; and his frown only intensifies, as he continues speaking, “It’s a bit worse than usual today, and I can’t say if it is because we’re visitin’ Flea and you have some strange ideas about me pickin’ this precise moment to run off with her,” he pauses to glare at Athos out of the corner of his eye, “or if it is because you haven’t allowed yourself to, eh, _unwind_ ever since Aramis … joined us.”

His meaning hits Athos like a fist to the stomach, hits the air right out of his lungs. He manages to walk on, continues walking as though nothing at all has occurred to disturb his peace when the fact of the matter is that his balance is dangerously upset.

He has no idea what to say. He had hoped Porthos would not mention this circumstance until … never, actually.

“A little bit of both, eh?” Porthos remarks when Athos does not say anything for quite a while.

Athos can only nod, and even that puts a strain on his tense muscles.

Porthos sighs, and he is staring up at the sky again, as if he hopes to find some sort of assistance up there. Maybe he does. Maybe Aramis taught him how.

“Well first of all – I’m not gonna run off with Flea,” Porthos growls when Athos keeps silent, walks close enough to Athos to jostle him with his elbow, infinitely gentle despite everything. “Aramis and you’re a pair of fools for even thinkin’ that.”

He looks at Athos out of the corner of his eye again, and all Athos can do is look back, until he cannot even do that anymore, and has to stare down at the muddy ground instead.

“I know you want to,” Porthos says then, and his demeanour changes so suddenly that it sends a shiver down Athos’ spine, makes him feel hot beneath the bandana around his neck. Porthos’ voice sounds careful, but at the same time startlingly confident – he knows that what he says is the truth, and he is not afraid of saying it out loud. He just does not know how Athos will react, if this is the right moment.

But then, there is no right moment for this.

“I know you need it,” Porthos adds, softer still, concerned and heart-wrenchingly fond. It is almost enough to _hurt_ Athos, the knowledge that Porthos cares for him so deeply that he takes it upon himself to tease the truth out of him, infinitely patient. “Is Aramis the reason you won’t allow yourself the pleasure?”

Athos wishes they were somewhere else. He wishes he could hold on to Porthos, could go to his knees and cling to him. He wants to hide his face against Porthos’ body and drown in his warmth, show Porthos how much he loves him by doing whatever Porthos might ask of him. He cannot. All he can do is pay Porthos back by being honest.

“Yes,” he admits, the word tasting like ash on his tongue, “I … it does not feel right … with him.”

They walk on, they still walk on towards the Court, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Athos feels as if the path in front of him is turning liquid, flowing away with his feet.

Porthos touches his arm then, stops him and pulls him to the side of the quiet street, into the shadow of a house whose second floor sticks out into the road just above their heads.

“Breathe,” he urges him, “breathe, my friend.”

His hands are on Athos’ shoulders, warm and heavy, and Athos stares up into his face as though Porthos was the sun, and he intent on blinding himself.

No matter the state of his vision, the rest of Athos’ body obeys. His lungs draw in air as though it was a matter of course, as if all they needed was Porthos’ gentle command.

“That’s better,” Porthos murmurs when the pain recedes from Athos’ chest, “that’s much better, love.”

Athos’ eyes start to sting with sudden tears, and he opens them wide, determined not to let any liquid spill. Porthos’ glove-clad thumbs rub over his shoulders, grounding him, keeping him up, and still Athos feels as though he should have fallen to his knees long ago.

He takes a shuddering breath and hangs his head. “I am truly sorry.”

“For what?” Porthos asks, neither rebuffing nor impatient – instead honestly curious. “Aramis will understand, I’m sure.”

Athos represses a shiver, does not shake his head the way he wants to. “He does not … want to be a part of it,” he says instead.

Porthos is markedly silent in answer to this, and when Athos looks up at him, Porthos’ frown seems to cast shadows over the whole of the narrow street. “Did you talk to him?” he asks.

Athos swallows around the lump in his throat, and holds Porthos’ gaze. “He never touches it. Your bandana.”

Once more the words taste like something foreign on Athos’ tongue. Maybe because they are so very superfluous. Porthos knows. He must have noticed Aramis’ behaviour just as much as Athos has.

Athos does not know what he expects Porthos to do or say in reaction to his words. He certainly doesn’t expect Porthos’ expression to soften and morph into a fond smile. “You wanna be a mind-reader so bad, don’t you, my friend?”

The sound of Porthos’ voice alone suffices to make Athos feel weak, makes him realize that he never even thought of talking to Aramis. He might have cleared this up weeks ago, might have spared himself the anguish of doubt.

If only it was so easy.

Athos closes his eyes, very briefly, and takes a deliberate breath. “Even if he … if he wanted to, I am … I am not certain I could … could be a dog of two masters.”

With that chained-up thought finally out in the open Athos breathes a little easier. Now that he has managed to pull it out of his throat it will hopefully no longer choke him from inside.

He takes another careful breath, finds that it fills his lungs without paining him, and re-opens his eyes.

Porthos looks pale. His eyes are stormy, and the little crease between his brows is more pronounced than it ever was before. “Dog?” he repeats, and the thunder in his voice is all the louder for him speaking so softly.

If he did not know him so well, Athos might become afraid of him. While he is not afraid, never afraid of Porthos, he still averts his gaze and stares down at the ground between their feet. “Am I not your dog?” he asks, and it does not particularly surprise Athos how very smooth his voice sounds even now.

Part of him wants Porthos to say yes, despite everything. Because if he says no –

“Do I treat you like a dog?”

The question startles Athos, mostly due to the undercurrent of fear with which it is uttered. When he looks back up at Porthos’ face, the expression of anxious guilt he encounters there cuts like a shard of ice into Athos’ gut. “Never,” he says – fervent, desperate for Porthos to believe him, and be at ease. His hand grips the front of Porthos’ uniform, and the leather keens beneath his frantic hand, “Not once, Porthos, I promise you.”

Porthos closes his eyes and a heavy breath leaves his chest. “Then why would you _say_ such a thing?” Athos can hear the misery in his voice and wants to hold him, wants to comfort him. “Why would you speak of dogs and _masters_ when we are –“ he lowers his voice and his head, whispers into Athos’ ear, “when we are _lovers_.”

Athos’ knees twitch in reaction to the word, still want him to sink down into the dirt and give in.

It has been so long.

He fights against it, fights against the longing, and it hurts to keep it contained when Porthos is so close.

“Athos,” Porthos says softly, bringing some distance between them so he can look into Athos’ eyes, “when … when you give in and allow me to take care of you – that’s … that’s really all I do … all I _want_ to do.” His eyes beg Athos to understand, but Athos averts his gaze, shakes his head.

“My weakness must be so heavy for you to carry.“

“Weakness?” Porthos echoes, startled and disbelieving. “Athos, your _trust_ , that’s what you give me.” He grips Athos’ shoulders a little firmer. “Did you think that all this time you were bein’ weak for lettin’ me see that side of you?”

Athos nods, his gaze still averted, and he hears Porthos take a deep breath. “You trustin’ me enough like that is not weakness, my friend. Bein’ that vulnerable takes courage and strength. I admire you for it, to be honest.”

Athos blinks at that, and stares at Porthos, uncomprehending. “Why would you,” he swallows, moistens his lips, “why would you admire me for something so –“

“Beautiful?” Porthos interrupts him gently, “because I’m the one who sees it, aren’t I? Because I’m the one who knows.”

Warmth blossoms inside Athos’ chest. His shame settles, turns softer around its edges, and he stares at Porthos’ lips, watches his mouth as he talks the sting of degradation right out of him.

“I’m the only one you trust enough. Makes me proud, that,” Porthos says, and then he grins at Athos, fleetingly, but full of pride nevertheless. Tendrils of light spread inside Athos, keep unfurling their glowing petals even when Porthos sobers. “Now tell me this, my friend: do you _believe_ Aramis doesn’t want to join us, or are you afraid he _might_ not?”

Athos turns his gaze away once more. He feels lighter, now that he has heard Porthos’ view on the subject, but his heart is still in doubt about Aramis. “He might not see matters quite the way you do.”

Porthos clears his throat in a very delicate manner. “The man enjoys havin' his hair pulled to a point I’d call painful. I’d say he’s closer to understandin’ matters than I am.”

Athos smiles despite himself, a little lighter still. He should have talked to Porthos about this weeks ago. “You may very well be right,” he says gratefully. “I promise you, I will talk to him.”

“Good,” Porthos says warmly, stroking his hands over Athos’ shoulders, “I’ll be there for that talk, if you want me to.” He hesitates and bites his bottom lip, “… Promise me another thing?”

“Anything,” Athos replies, no hesitation, neither in his voice, nor in his heart, “What is it?”

Porthos takes his right hand off Athos’ shoulder and instead grabs Athos’ wrist, squeezes it gently above the fabric of his glove. “Never call me your master again?”

He sounds unbelievably sad uttering this request.

Athos’ eyes fly up to his face, and he swallows when he sees the pain in Porthos’ expression. “I am so sorry.”

Porthos smiles at him, despite everything, smiles through the hurt and offers Athos comfort. “Yeah?”

“I was not thinking,” Athos says, remorse rising in his throat like bile. “I promise you, I will not call you by this name again.”

“Good,” Porthos replies gently, and his thumb rubs over the back of Athos’ hand. Athos can feel his warmth through both of their gloves. “Because whatever happens when we are together like that – the control is always yours, you understand? It’s yours to give it to me, and yours to take away again.” He looks guilty again. “I thought you knew that.”

Athos’ eyes widen, and he swallows. He remembers how Porthos always made sure that Athos felt safe, that he had different ways and means to stop whatever they were doing – to bring it to an end should he feel any discomfort. “I should have known,” he whispers. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Porthos says, his eyes warm and soft, far too forgiving. “We never properly talked about this. It’s my fault, too.”

Athos wants to kiss him with a passion so sudden that it frightens him.

Porthos must see it on his face, for a grin flashes over his features, bright and hot. “We’d better move on, eh? You okay to visit Flea now? Not afraid anymore that I’ll have a sudden bout of insanity and return to the Court?”

Athos actually smiles at him, wants to provide Porthos with the same comfort he always receives so abundantly. “I look forward to meeting her,” he says, feeling all the better for telling nothing but the truth. “Properly this time.”

Porthos grins again, devious and a little crooked. “If we’re real lucky, we might even get to her without bein’ threatened at knifepoint first.”


	4. Chapter 4

Gaining access to the Court is much easier with Porthos than it was without him. His tall figure is still well known among its residents, and they seem to trust him not to disturb their peace, even when he brings a fellow musketeer into their midst.

Athos keeps close to his side, keeps his head down, and trusts as well – trusts Porthos to be his beacon, relies on him to guide him through the Court’s narrow alleys.

They meet Flea on the way to her chambers, in a passage-way open to the dim sky, hung with various cloths and carpets. She seems to be in the middle of a discussion with a woman of somewhat dangerous demeanour, wearing several knives openly about her person, and a wild mop of dirty red hair.

To keep a respectful distance seems to be the wisest course of action until the woman takes her leave – not without casting a mistrustful glance in their direction. As soon as she is gone, and they are alone with Flea, she turns and smirks at Porthos, opens her arms wide in a theatrical gesture of welcome. “Back so soon? Are you getting homesick?”

Porthos steps into her space and pulls her to his chest, and Athos watches with a heavy heart how she throws her arms around him and closes her eyes while they embrace.

As soon as they part she fixes her gaze on Athos though, and something impish springs into her features. “Did you bring me a present?”

Athos very nearly flushes under her attention.

“Nah, I’m gonna keep this one,” Porthos replies good-naturedly, completely at ease, “you wouldn’t know what to do with him.”

She lifts a sceptical eyebrow that clearly says “I know what to do with _you_ , don’t I?” and Athos clears his throat, somewhat uncomfortable, “It is my genuine pleasure.”

Flea lifts both brows in an expression of surprise, and then she grins at him. “The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure.” Her mouth quirks into a soft smirk. “I remember you, I think – all worried for my well-being after I’d been shot, weren’t you?”

Athos inclines his head in agreement, “Yes, we have met.”

She chuckles and winks at Porthos, “You’re right, I might find it difficult to handle this one. Very posh.” She puts her hands on her hips. “So. What do you want?”

Porthos grins down at her, and Athos cannot decide whether he likes how utterly relaxed Porthos is in these surroundings or not. “You know a Felicia? Young girl, maybe eighteen, tall, blonde, a bit too thin?”

Flea sighs. “You could at least _pretend_ that it was my company you came here for, you artless knob.” She lowers her brows into a frown and lifts her chin as she stares off into space, lost in thought. “I don’t think I know a girl like that, though – why, what has she done?”

“We are not sure yet,” Athos says softly. “We would merely like to ask her a few questions.”

“Well, I can ask around,” Flea shrugs, and a smile springs back onto her face as she looks at Porthos. “And now that we got that outta the way: How have you been?”

“Good,” Porthos says, and his eyes stray towards Athos, “very good.”

Athos does not know what a stranger might take away from this, but he is suddenly terribly aware of a coil of heat unravelling inside him. Porthos’ gaze feels like the light of the sun on his skin, and the bandana around Athos’ neck seems even sturdier than usual, keeping him in place – close to Porthos. He is Porthos’ and Porthos is his, and all it took for Athos to remember this was Porthos looking at him.

Flea, not being a stranger at all, knows Porthos certainly well enough to detect the warmth in his tone, and she smiles a little wistfully, “That good, eh?”

Porthos shrugs helplessly, and Athos has no trouble reading his face, his bearing – _I am where I want to be_ , it says, _I do what I love among those I care for more than anything_.

“Yeah,” Flea says, apparently just as perceptive as Athos, “what can you do.” She straightens and takes a deep breath. “Well, it was a pleasure, to be sure, but I’ve got somewhere I have to be, and I’m sure you gentlemen have work to do as well.” She pulls her patched cloak tighter around herself and adopts a sober expression. “I’ll ask around for your Felicia, and let you know when I find out anything, yeah?”

“Thank you,” Porthos says and hugs her once more, “She’s got nothing to fear from us if she’s innocent, I promise.”

“I know,” Flea replies earnestly, patting his chest, “Wouldn’t help you if I didn’t know that.”

They hold each other for a long moment, and this time, as Athos looks on, he can witness their affection without suffering any heartache for it.

Porthos has made his choice; he made it years ago.

 

“It was good to see Flea,” Porthos comments as they step out off the Court side by side. “I’m glad she’s doin’ well.”

Athos wants to kiss him, as he so often does when Porthos makes a perfectly innocuous statement; this time because Porthos cares so deeply for his friends, even the ones he had to leave behind.

Porthos left the Court because he _had_ to, it was either losing his life or himself there, but he never forgot those who would not follow, and he never will.

They turn towards the heart of the city, leave the Court behind and walk … home, basically. The sky has cleared somewhat while they were talking to Flea, but it is still mainly overhung with clouds. Only here and there an errand ray of sunlight breaks through and illuminates the dirty streets, brings an unexpected shine to the wet cobbles.

“You’re not so tense anymore,” Porthos notes when they have walked in silence for a few minutes.

Athos blinks and straightens his shoulders, and the left corner of his mouth quirks upward when his body obeys him without even a hint of discomfort. “It appears that you are right.”

“I’m glad,” Porthos says again, and lowers his voice to a murmur, “I’d have taken matters into my own hands, otherwise.”

Athos flushes and swallows, and tilts his head to the side, looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Porthos.”

He is almost proud of the drawl he accomplishes.

Porthos’ grin flashes bright. “What? I just wanna help.”

“You do,” Athos assures him, no drawl at all in his voice now, “You always do.”

The smile this confession results in might just be the sweetest Porthos has ever directed at him. “Yeah? Good.”

Neither of them says anything for a while. Porthos keeps grinning in a soft, exceedingly appealing manner, and Athos enjoys the feeling of warmth spreading throughout his body from inside his chest.

Only when they have almost reached the tavern where Aramis and d’Artagnan are waiting for them, does Porthos speak up again. “That’s important to me you know?” He directs a shy grin at Athos, “That I’m not just a blatherin’ fool whose words don’t make any difference to you.”

Athos stops him then, has to stop him. He puts his hand on Porthos’ shoulder and gently but firmly manoeuvres him to the side of the street. Once they are standing still he makes a grab for the front of Porthos’ jacket, and does not let go of it again. “You are –” he starts, needs to take a deep breath as his emotions threaten to overcome him, “I would not know what to –“ once more he stops, his mind as full as his heart, overflowing. “I owe you so much,” is all he gets out without losing track of his words.

It does not convey the immensity of his gratitude, does not even begin to, but it is all he can say, nevertheless.

Porthos lets out a soft breath, and then he puts his hands on Athos’ shoulders and leans down, leans in until his forehead touches Athos’, closes his eyes. “Everythin’ I give you, I give you freely, and because I want to. You owe me nothin’, my friend.” Athos feels, more than he sees the smile dawning on Porthos’ face. “But I think I understand what you mean, love.”

His words flow through Athos like spiced hot wine – the kind his grandfather made when the winter days were too long and too dark, and you needed something with a little more substance to it to get rid of the ice that had gotten inside.

Porthos has always been like that, has always been able to melt him. His words and his voice make Athos feel loose and warm, make him feel _good_. “Thank you,” he whispers, “for everything.”

“Always,” Porthos whispers back, and his hand comes up to brush through Athos’ hair, careful and gentle. “You know that, right? Always.”

“Yes,” Athos says, because he _does_ know, despite his fears and insecurities. He knows. Porthos will not leave him, will leave neither him nor Aramis, not while he has any say in the matter.

They stay where they are for a moment longer, until they finally straighten and smile at one another. Athos keeps still when Porthos reaches out and gently adjusts the bandana around his neck, enjoys the trickle of warmth down his spine the gesture results in.

Now that he has decided to talk to Aramis about the matter, Athos’ heart rests easier inside his chest – he rests easier inside _himself_ , and the idea of falling to his knees for Porthos is more of a sweet promise than a threat to his self-worth.

Porthos does not think him weak for surrendering, Porthos admires him for it. Athos is not fully able to grasp the magnitude of this idea yet, and maybe he never will be, but it does give him more strength than he would ever have thought possible.

“Ready to go in?” Porthos asks him, and Athos nods, just to feel the rough fabric of the bandana move against his skin.

“Yes,” he says, his voice calm and certain. “They have waited long enough for us.”

 

 _La Chatte Blanche_ is a clean establishment, airy and bright, serving actual meals should its customers want them. Athos does not frequent it regularly, has never been inside as a matter of fact, but Constance tells him that the cook is a kind, clean woman, who offers very generous servings.

The ideal place to get Porthos the breakfast he deserves.

If they are very lucky their friends will not only have ordered and received their food already, but refrained from eating it as well.

Athos follows Porthos, over the threshold and inside, and closes the door behind them. The taproom is relatively empty, with only a handful of souls in attendance. D’Artagnan and Aramis occupy the table furthest from the door, and while he crosses the room towards it, Athos has sufficient time to take in the scene currently unfolding between Aramis and the serving maid.

She is laying the table, and Aramis appears to be flirting with her – is leaning back in his chair and looking up at her with a certain gleam in his eyes. His hand, resting on the chair’s armrest is outstretched just far enough for his fingertips to brush against the starched white fabric of her apron. She is young, too young, some might argue, but she smiles at Aramis in a manner that suggests she is either experienced beyond her years, or means to be.

Athos does not blame her. Aramis is … beautiful. Always has been. He is also encouraging her in a way that makes d’Artagnan clearly uncomfortable. Aramis’ pose and his smile are teasing, open and inviting, the contact between him and the girl just barely light enough to be deniable.

Surprisingly enough, seeing it does not make Athos uncomfortable at all. It is not discomfort that pushes through him like a hot poker, blunt and torturous. It is not jealousy either. Athos is not jealous. He is … _hurt_ is the only word that comes to mind, although it is by far too weak.

It hurts to see Aramis flirting with someone else – someone else who is not Porthos, someone else who cannot have a claim on Aramis’ heart … not yet at least. Even Aramis does not fall in love quite so quickly.

Athos had thought he was ready for this, that it would not wound him all that deeply to see Aramis search for new romance, a fresh rose tint to sweeten the realities of life.

But Athos is wounded, and Aramis has not even done anything yet. He is merely directing that glittering smile of his at a pretty young girl, paying her a number of empty compliments, is barely touching her at all.

That glittering smile of his.

Maybe it would not hurt quite as much had Athos ever seen it directed at himself.

“Gentlemen,” he says when he comes to a standstill next to the table, his voice steady even when his heart is not. D’Artagnan looks up at him with apprehension in his eyes, but he does not say a word.

Aramis looks at him too, and the smile falls right off his face, while his hand is pulled back and balled into a fist. Clearly, Athos is not very good at hiding his emotions. He sees Aramis pale, sees him swallow, now just as uncomfortable as d’Artagnan, if not more. “Athos –“

“I see you provided generously for us,” Athos interrupts him, his eyes on the spread adorning the table. His voice is a little too sharp, and he takes a quick breath and checks his temper, “I fear it is too much, but thank you all the same.”

He feels Porthos’ hand on his back, steadying, comforting, and feels the better for it. Maybe he would have been able to relax, had the serving maid not chosen this moment to speak and inquire what they’d like to drink.

She is a sweet girl with friendly brown eyes, yet Athos cannot stand to be close to her at this moment. “Nothing, I thank you,” he says, as kindly as possible. “I am not staying.”

“Eh? What’s this?” Porthos growls and pulls him to the side, a few feet away from the table. “He doesn’t mean anythin’ by it,” he whispers urgently, “he was just –“

“I know,” Athos interrupts him, cold and firm, “and I do not ask him to stop.” He swallows and meets Porthos gaze. “Just … please do not ask me to watch.”

Because he cannot do so – not now anyway. Maybe he will get used to it in time.

Porthos does not seem to know what to say in answer to this, and Athos forces himself to smile. “Sit down and eat, my friend. I will inform the Captain about our progress.”

He turns his head when he sees that Aramis has gotten up from his chair and come over to them, directs another forced smile at him. “Share your new information with Porthos and report to the Captain once you have finished your repast.”

Aramis pales even more, and Athos reaches out to him, briefly touches his arm to reassure him, “Enjoy the establishment’s hospitality to your heart’s delight, my friend.”

With that he turns and leaves.

He feels better as soon as he is outside again, as soon as he can feel the cold air on his skin and does not have to witness the beginnings of Aramis’ affair anymore.

He directs his steps towards the garrison, and it does not take him very long to calm his pulse and clear his mind.

Undoubtedly, his reaction to what he saw was too strong.

He knows Aramis, he has known him for years, and he knew that this would happen sooner or later. It should not have affected him the way it did … the way it still does.

He promised Aramis to not hold his affairs against him, made a promise that he would not begrudge Aramis his dalliances, and he _will not_. All he has to do is find a way to dull the pain.

Surely, Porthos will assist him in this endeavour.

 

Athos has made good progress, has covered at least half the way between the tavern and the garrison when he hears hasty footsteps behind him – the sound of running feet. “Athos!”

He instantly recognizes Aramis’ voice, stops in his tracks and turns around. His heart jumps up into his throat for a moment when he sees that Aramis is indeed running to catch up with him.

When Aramis has reached him and comes to a stop, panting, Athos has himself under firm control though. “What is the matter?” he asks, as calm and unaffected as possible. “Has something happened?”

“Please,” Aramis gasps, and his eyes look haunted when he lifts his head and fixes them on Athos, “please come back with me – have breakfast with us.”

“Certainly not,” Athos says immediately, recoiling from the very idea. He lifts his chin, doing his utmost to remain unruffled. “I assure you, I am not at all hungry.”

Aramis’ lashes flutter as his eyes widen, suddenly far too bright with panic. “Please,” he says, and the anguish in his voice surprises Athos just as much as it pains him, “Athos, _please_.”

Athos stands still, and looks at Aramis.

Something is clearly wrong, apart from Athos’ wounded feelings.

“Aramis,” he murmurs, his voice cautious and gentle, “what happened?”

Instead of answering, Aramis averts his gaze, stares down at the dirty cobbles at their feet. “I’m not going to do it again, I promise.”

He sounds just as defeated as he did after he had kissed Athos, and thought he’d lost everything by doing so. Athos regards him for a long moment, takes in his hopeless posture, and finally reaches out his hand to him, touches his shoulder. “Aramis –“

As soon as Athos touches him, Aramis moves, moves closer to Athos, very nearly falls into him. “Please,” he says again, “please don’t leave.”

Athos’ eyes widen, and he swallows as understanding pushes into his gut like a cold steel blade.

“I will not leave,” he says firmly, lets his hand glide down Aramis’ arm and encircles his wrist with his fingers, “I am not leaving you – do you understand?”

“You _did_ leave,” Aramis whispers, and a shiver runs through his body, so weak as to be almost imperceptible, “you told me to … told me to –“

Athos’ words from minutes ago come back to him, and he cringes. He certainly made it sound … rather final when he chose his parting words. “Oh, Aramis, I am sorry.”

Aramis looks up at him again, and still he looks shaken, still he looks as though he was standing above an abyss, with nothing to hold him up, nothing to keep him safe.

Athos meets his gaze, and he wants to pull Aramis into his arms, wants to whisper soothing words into his ear and abate his fears. Because there can be only one reason for behaviour like this.

Should he lose Athos, and Porthos with him, Aramis loses everything. They are not merely his lovers, but his friends, his _family_.

As many affairs of the heart as he has had throughout his life, Athos does not believe Aramis ever came close to the kind of bond holding the three of them together. This could very well be the first time Aramis allowed himself to fall so very deeply … the first time an affair came without a rose tint, without that pleasant magic to hide himself behind and keep his heart safe while he played at being in love.

It is really no wonder that Aramis is so very afraid of losing them. He has lost so many others already.

Athos puts his free hand on Aramis’ shoulder, comes to a decision. “Come along,” he says softly. “Let me take you home.”

Aramis nods and allows Athos to pull him away, his head bowed, gaze directed at the ground.

It reminds Athos too much of the day Aramis kissed him and ran away, the day Aramis tried to drink himself into oblivion – Aramis, who is so good at pretending that nothing ever goes wrong for him, who always, _always_ smiles.

It is when he loses that smile that you know for a certainty how very troubled he is.

Athos’ mind is whirling as he leads him through the streets, trying to get a grip on what is happening – trying to unravel the tangle of emotion that has led them here.

All those dangerous moments, all those times Aramis seemed to retreat, would not ask to be included, and kept himself apart.

Athos could have sworn that Aramis felt safe enough with him and Porthos now – that he had lost his dread of being abandoned, no longer feared to be left behind.

Apparently, he could not have been more wrong.

Athos should have known. He should have _asked_.

People pass them by and eye them askance, but nobody dares comment on the fact that Athos is leading his friend through the streets by the hand.

Aramis certainly looks sick enough to offer an excuse, and even if he did not, Athos would not let go of him.

He has allowed this to happen because he was too caught up in his own doubts and fears, and he will not fail Aramis again. He will take care of him. He will fix this.

 

It takes but a few minutes to reach Aramis’ lodgings.

Aramis revives sufficiently to unlock the door for them, but once it is done he retreats back into himself, silent and apprehensive like a frightened child. Clearly he is still waiting for Athos to chastise him, to dole out some sort of punishment and put him in his place.

Athos is the one who opens the door and gently pulls at Aramis when he does not move by himself. Once they are inside Athos closes the door, and because it is cold in the room, and he desires Aramis to be comfortable, he starts to light a fire.

It gives him time to collect his thoughts, even when Aramis’ eyes are on him the entire time, watching his every move. Athos tries to map out in his mind what precisely he wants to say, and does his best to ignore the heavy silence enveloping them.

He misses Aramis’ light-hearted chatter – it always gave him hope in times of trouble, even when it was playacting in the face of death; it helped Athos to focus on the problem at hand, steadied his nerves.

But when he gets up from his knees in front of the hearth, and Aramis finally opens his mouth to speak, it does not steady Athos at all. “I’m sorry,” Aramis says, and his voice sounds strange – dreamy and detached, “I shouldn’t have done it.”

Athos looks at him again, takes in his drooping shoulders and the sad tilt of his mouth – the blank look in his eyes.

All he did was smile, Athos thinks, and bites his lip. “You did not do anything wrong,” he offers, and his voice comes out too cold, too smooth.

“Yes, yes I did,” Aramis contradicts him. He sounds exhausted, shattered, and Athos hates that he did this, that he’s the one who is responsible for this – that he made Aramis afraid of him.

“I saw the way you looked at me”, Aramis whispers. “You were so angry … so disappointed –“ Aramis moves towards Athos and looks at him, and his expression is so open, so vulnerable that Athos aches with it.

“Please,” Aramis whispers, and he comes a little closer still, “please let me make it up to you.”

He goes to his knees in front of Athos, and his hands come up to Athos’ trousers, open first one button, and then the next, and another one.

Athos stands frozen in place, and the realization of what is happening makes him feel sick with sudden recollection.

She did this. In the beginning, when she thought she had displeased him – this was what she did, how she coaxed him back into good humour, how she made him forget there had ever been discord between them.

But even while on her knees for him she never looked so vulnerable and helpless as Aramis does right now. Even while on her knees she was stronger than Athos.

It takes Athos far too long to emerge from this nightmarish memory, and when he does, Aramis has undone nearly all his buttons, and the expression on his face speaks of pure, miserable determination.

“Aramis, no!” Athos very nearly yells the words, and because he is fighting so hard not to be overwhelmed by pictures of the past, he sounds too harsh, far too angry.

Aramis flinches and stares up at him, his dark eyes huge in his pale face. “Please let me – I don’t know what else to do.”

The desperation in his voice very nearly makes Athos cry. “You don’t have to do anything, my friend,” he whispers, his own voice hoarse with unshed tears, finally everything but cold. He goes down on his knees to join Aramis on the floor, takes off his gloves and lifts his hand to cup Aramis’ cheek. He strokes his thumb over Aramis’ cold skin, and when he speaks, his own pain and guilt very nearly overwhelm him, “I was wrong for leaving you the way I did – my reaction to what I saw was –“

“I made you angry,” Aramis whispers, barely heeding him, too lost in his conviction – certain of being left behind at last. “You knew this would happen, although I promised you that it wouldn’t, and –“

“Aramis, no, please, stop.” Athos leans forward and pulls Aramis into his arms, strokes gently over his hair. “Nothing happened. You did nothing wrong. All you did was smile, my friend. You did not stray. There is no need for fear and apologies.”

The fire in the hearth crackles loudly, and then Aramis clings to him, hides his face against Athos’ neck, and lets out a shuddering breath, “I thought I’d lost you.”

He sounds like a child, who was pushed out into the cold all by itself and has finally found the way back home after hours alone in the dark. 

“Never,” Athos promises Aramis, and holds him all the tighter. “You will never lose me – not to something like this.”

Aramis takes a hasty gulp of air and a desperate laugh bubbles up in his throat. “Ah, but sooner or later I will do more than smile, and what will you do then? You’ll hate me for it, and how could you not? Soon enough you’ll realize that you don’t need me to be happy after all, that I’m nothing but a burden, an unnecessary addition to what you have with Porthos.”

His words cut into Athos’ skin like poisoned needles, barbs on their tips, impossible to remove. They are an echo of Athos’ own thoughts – of his conviction that Porthos and Aramis might be much better off without him – and thus cut all the deeper.

“Come on up,” he says to Aramis, and he cannot help it that his voice sounds cold once more. If it would not, it would most certainly break, and sound muffled with tears instead, “get off your knees, come on.”

Aramis obeys, his eyes wide and insecure, and Athos can feel his face turning into a mask of ice as he leads Aramis across the room by his elbow, and makes him sit on the edge of the bed.

He understands Aramis’ fears because they are his own, too … but Aramis does not know that. Aramis seems to think him more whole than he really is, indestructible and fearless.

Athos should never have allowed him to place him on such a high pedestal. Not only was it lonely up there, but the distance distorted Aramis’ perception, too.

It is really no wonder they were outside each other’s reach for so long, desperate to connect.

Once Aramis is sitting on the bed, Athos takes off his jacket to gain time, undoes the buttons Aramis had not touched yet, while he gazes down at his friend, trying to find the words to make him understand.

His face still feels stiff, his skin like ice, cold and motionless, shielding him from Aramis. Instead of trying to get rid of the mask, Athos decides to make use of its impenetrable surface – to work with it. He accumulates his fears behind the mask’s facade, collects them just outside of Aramis’ perception, and pushes them up and outward until the ice finally cracks.

“When I set foot into that tavern,” he says slowly, pushing his jacket off his shoulders and depositing it on the foot of the bed, “and I saw you smiling at that girl, it was not anger I felt.”

It feels curious, uttering the words. They come out too easily, too smoothly, and Athos falters for a moment, tries to ignore the way Aramis flinches and hunches over. Athos finds that divulging this piece of truth has not harmed him in any way, and crouches down in front of Aramis to take his unresisting hands, and entwine their fingers.

When he resumes speaking, his voice is fragile and thin, “I was hurt, Aramis. I was hurt because I had seen you smile like that countless times before – but not at me.”

Aramis blinks at him, visibly surprised, terribly confused, and does not say a word. His silence does not deter Athos, instead it spurs him on, urges him to fill the space between him and Aramis with words, and build a bridge out of them.

“I was hurt,” he repeats, “and I was afraid. I was afraid to lose Porthos today when I saw him with Flea, and I was afraid to lose you when I saw you with that girl.”

Aramis’ eyes widen, and Athos hastens to add, “I trust Porthos, and I trust you, but the fear is still there.”

For a heartbeat or two neither of them speaks. Aramis’ shoulders are tense, and his head is bowed. When he eventually opens his mouth to speak, his voice falls over his lips like a summer stream, dried up and feeble, “I am so sorry, Athos. I never meant to hurt you.” Athos watches his face morph into an expression of heartache, and feels Aramis grip his hands a little too tightly. “But I thought –“ Aramis swallows, and evades Athos’ gaze, “I thought you and Porthos at least, that you –“

“We _are_ ,” Athos interrupts him gently, returning the pressure of his fingers with a tender squeeze. “Porthos and I are bound to each other in affection and loyalty, and we will not part so easily.” He lifts Aramis’ hands to his lips and kisses their knuckles, infinitely loving, just the way Porthos would do for him. “Neither will you and I, Aramis. Please try to understand that because he and I … that because Porthos was the first to kiss me, I do not –”

He shies away from taking this last step, the same way he always does, and all his courage seems to fail him.

But maybe saying the words will not hurt as much as he fears it will. He has never even tried, after all – allowed his fear to prevent him each and every time.

The promise he made Porthos chooses this moment to recommend itself to Athos, and he smiles wryly, and extracts some dearly needed strength from it. This was not the topic they both had in mind when Athos made his promise to talk to Aramis, but Aramis’ needs come first, as they always do.

Athos must tell Aramis that he is loved, not for himself, but for _Aramis_. Porthos might not need to hear the words, but Aramis most certainly does.

So Athos takes a deep breath, and lets them out, ignoring the panicked fluttering of his heart inside his chest. “I may have been slow to realize it,” he says quietly, “but I do not love you any less than I love him.”

The words leave his mouth and it feels as though they take a darkness with them, a suffocating coil around his soul, and Athos’ heart stops fluttering. It did not hurt to say them. If anything, Athos hurts less now for allowing them out.

He does not hear her voice inside his head at all. She remains mute, does not dare interfere with this moment.

Aramis is staring at him, eyes wide and wet, and Athos leans forward and into his space, kisses him lightly on the lips. “I love you, Aramis,” he says, soft, but full of conviction. “With all my heart.”

The emotion only seems to grow every time he says it, and when he kisses Aramis once more, Athos closes his eyes and savours the moment – revels in Aramis’ taste, in the way the sadness melts off his lips and is replaced by joy.

Aramis kisses him back, feather-light and sweet, a mere brush of lips against lips, and when he lets go of Athos’ hands, throws his arms around him and pulls him close, Athos comes willingly.

“I love you,” Aramis whispers between kisses, fervent and breathless, “I love you, I love you.”

Athos lies down on the bed with him and pulls him into his arms, gently brushes the hair out of Aramis’ face. “Do not be afraid of losing me, Aramis,” he whispers, “I would never leave you – I couldn’t.”

Aramis sobs and clings to him, and Athos holds him as he is shaken by tremors, strokes his hands over Aramis’ back, kisses his temple.

He feels indescribably light, now that it is done and he did not shatter from allowing Aramis a glimpse at his soul. It seems altogether too easy to find more words to repair the damage done between them. It would be foolish to stop now, to hold back what can only do good.

His lips are still close to Aramis’ temple, and they brush against Aramis’ skin when Athos speaks, “Please do not try again to ease any real or imagined anger the way you did today. When we quarrel – and we will – I would much prefer we use words to reconcile, not bribery.”

Aramis takes a hasty breath and he pulls back, looks at Athos. His eyes seem clearer now, sharp like they are when he has a target in sight, but still they remain oddly vulnerable. “I was merely trying to –“

“To soften me by doing what you thought I would enjoy,” Athos interrupts him gently. “Yes, I know.”

Aramis looks terribly uncertain for a moment. “You wouldn’t have enjoyed it?”

“Not under the circumstances, no,” Athos replies honestly. “When we join our bodies, I want it to be out of a shared desire, I do not wish you to …” He bites his lip. “I want you to enjoy it, always, and only offer yourself when you –“

Aramis leans in again, hides his face against Athos’ neck. “I understand,” he whispers, hoarse and ashamed, “I understand, and I won’t do it again – I just –“ He falters and presses closer to Athos, and Athos brushes his fingers through his hair.

“You never encountered a disagreement you could not solve with either your weaponry, your fists, or some other devious means, did you, Aramis?”

Aramis keeps quiet, but his body is not quite so tense anymore, and Athos smiles. “We will have to teach each other, I fear – to speak up, when we hurt. If only I had spoken sooner –” Athos sighs and closes his eyes. “I want you to know that I still hold to my promise. I told you once that you are free to be yourself, that I would not hinder you should you feel the need to continue your affairs, and I –”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Aramis murmurs against Athos’ neck and kisses him there, “I only want you and Porthos. I merely thought her pretty, I didn’t mean anything by it, I was passing the time – I wouldn’t have –“

“I believe you,” Athos soothes him, holds him a little closer. “I –“

He wants to add that Aramis need not be afraid of Athos rebuking him for flirting ever again, but Aramis lifts his head and kisses him ere Athos can get out the words.

It is a passionate kiss, full of gratitude and relief, and Athos loses himself in it for a moment, in the feel of Aramis’ lips against his own, in his taste and skilful tongue.

Aramis tastes purely of joy now, of relief and gladness, and Athos licks over his lips, wants to savour him more deeply. Aramis obliges him with a content sigh; meets his tongue and offers Athos sweet security … the comforting certainty that he is loved, that the feeling is reciprocated.

They are both gasping for air when they part, and Athos is glad to see that Aramis no longer looks sick or frightened, but radiant with happiness.

“I love you,” Athos tells him again, “I always will – even when you drive me out of my mind sometimes.”

His words seem to take Aramis by surprise at first, but then he grins, delighted. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Athos assures him, and he is smiling as well, lets his fingertips skim over the landscape of Aramis’ face, barely touching him at all, “I have accepted long ago that, try as I might, I will never get rid of you and Porthos – and I urge you to adopt a similar attitude.”

There is a certain gravity to Aramis’ features suddenly, and his eyes shimmer with repressed emotion. “He told me to go after you.”

It does not surprise Athos, it does not surprise him at all. “Porthos is very wise,” he says solemnly.

Aramis immediately grins at him again. “But we won’t tell him that, will we?” He looks impish and sweet, with no shadows hiding in the depths of his eyes, and the sight works like a balm on Athos’ soul.

“Most of the time he knows anyway,” he says, a rare warmth to his voice. “We really are so very lucky to have him, are we not?”

Aramis’ grin turns fond and soft, until it is not so much a grin anymore, but a smile instead: shining out of his eyes and hiding in the corners of his mouth, “Very lucky, yes.” He bites his lip, insecure for a heartbeat or two, then he cranes his neck and brushes a kiss to Athos’ lips. “I’m sorry for … acting so silly.”

Athos returns his kiss and strokes his back. “If you were, I was, too.” He closes his eyes and hesitates for a moment. It feels strange, allowing his emotions out in the open like this, strange, but good. So far, he does not regret it at all. So he goes on. “I am sorry I did not tell you sooner – that I made you doubt my feelings for you.”

Aramis’ throat releases a mighty sigh and he rubs his cheek over Athos’ chest. “I thought part of you was only tolerating me. That you … that you felt sorry for me, and that my luck would run out sooner rather than later.”

There is no fear or sorrow in his demeanour, but instead a certain impatience with himself, and Athos pulls him closer into his arms, squeezes him tightly. “You are a fool,” he tells Aramis dryly, “and very lucky that I care for you as much as I do.”

Aramis lifts his head then, and smiles at him, and there is a brightness to that smile Athos cannot fail to notice. One might almost call it glittering. “Very lucky, yes,” Aramis says, still smiling, and Athos’ heart aches in all the best ways, “I won’t doubt you again, I promise.”

“Good,” Athos says, “because I want you … I want you to be happy, Aramis.” He looks into Aramis’ eyes, can only hope that Aramis believes him. “More than anything, I want you to be happy.”

Aramis stares back at him, his face slack and entirely without expression for a moment. When his smile returns, it is brighter than it ever was before. “I am,” he says. “God, Athos, I am.”

He reels Athos in by the front of his shirt to kiss him again, and they do not talk for a long while.


	5. Chapter 5

The fire has settled down in the hearth and filled the room with warmth when Aramis finally moves to extract himself from Athos’ arms and stands up. He divests himself of his jacket and puts it next to Athos’ on the foot of the bed, remains standing, and rakes his fingers through the tangled strands of his hair.

The vague idea that he needs it cut sooner rather than later forms in Athos’ mind, but it is not uttered. Something else is on his mind, too, something of rather more importance.

Aramis’ gaze is fixed on Athos, warm and full of wonder as it always is when Athos treats him with kindness, and Athos clears his throat.

It almost surprises him how insistently his heart keeps opening itself up, intent on sharing its innermost fears; but until it stops by itself, he will not hinder it per force. So he speaks, allows another uncomfortable observation into the light. “You keep looking at me as though I was not altogether human in your eyes.”

The eyes in question widen, and Aramis tilts his head. “You do not sound entirely pleased.”

Athos very nearly smiles. Of course Aramis would think it is a compliment when he treats Athos with far more respect and awe than is necessary or appropriate.

“I’d much rather you treat me as your equal,” Athos tells him softly. “I do not want you to look up to me – I want you to see me as I am.”

Because only when Aramis does not attribute any false strengths to him can Athos show him how very weak he really is.

Aramis, blissfully ignorant of these thoughts, beams at him. “But in my eyes you are wonderful, my dearest Athos.”

Athos flushes, for Aramis’ words fluster him the way they always do, but he presses his fingers into the bedding, grips it tightly, and clears his throat. “Please do not lift me so high that you cannot reach me anymore.”

For a precarious moment, Aramis almost looks offended, but then he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Athos, visibly lost in contemplation.

Athos can see how the thoughts tumble over one another in Aramis’ mind, and he does not think he has ever seen his friend frown quite so heavily. Strangely enough, it makes him smile.

“I am not sure I can refrain entirely,” Aramis says at length, “but I will try.”

He sounds earnest enough to put Athos at ease, and they smile at one another.

Athos feels elated by how easy this was, with how much simple honesty Aramis reacted to his request, and he contemplates reaching out his hand and pulling Aramis into his arms once more, when the door to the apartment opens and Porthos steps inside its frame.

Although the sky is very grey, it is still brighter than the light from the fire inside the room, and his silhouette is sharply outlined against the outside world. His wide shoulders and preposterous hat fill the doorframe, and then he steps across the threshold, closes the door behind him.

He does not say anything, moves quietly through the room while taking peeks at them from the corner of his eye. He takes off his hat, divests himself of his gloves, and throws it all down on the window sill – but he never fully looks in their direction.

His stealth tactics make Athos smile and when he looks at Aramis, he finds him smiling as well.

Porthos really never was very subtle.

“Good,” Porthos finally says when he has progressed to taking off his jacket, and his voice is carefully neutral, his eyes very keen, “neither of you has swooned from lack of sustenance yet.”

He sounds tentative, is still watching them like a hawk, searching and slightly worried, and Athos smiles at him. “Relax, Porthos, it turned out rather well.”

Porthos’ grin is instant, if reluctant to reach full brightness. “Yeah?” His whole bearing seems to soften, and his shoulders especially droop when the tension bleeds out of them.

“Yes,” Aramis tells him, smiling without inhibition. “We … we talked … well, Athos mostly.”

“Good,” Porthos says once more, heartfelt, and with a heavy sigh. He steps closer to the bed and in front of Aramis, puts his hand beneath his chin, and gently lifts his head.

Aramis smiles up at him, trusting and happy, and Porthos smiles back, rubs his thumb over Aramis’ beard. “You look much better, my friend. I like this smile of yours.”

Aramis turns his head to press a kiss to Porthos’ wrist, and closes his eyes. His whole body seems to focus on the point where they touch, leans into it like a child. “Thank you for sending me after him.”

Porthos tenses slightly at his words, and turns his head towards Athos, uncertainty marring his features.

Athos inclines his head and smiles up at him, honestly grateful. He knows what Porthos did for him – what he did for them. “Yes, indeed.”

“I just,” Porthos bites his lip, still doubtful despite the reassurance, “I just thought it wouldn’t do to let it fester.”

“And you were right,” Athos replies. He puts his feet on the floor and gets up from the bed, stands at Porthos’ side, puts his arms around his middle and embraces him. “Truly: thank you.”

“Eh, this is nice,” Porthos exclaims, and turns his head to brush a kiss to Athos’ forehead, curls his free arm around him, “Both of you so cuddly all of a sudden … That must have been some talk.”

He looks into Athos’ eyes while he says it, and Athos shrugs without letting go of him. “I was … comprehensive.”

“You were?” Porthos grins at him, and there is so much pride in his eyes, such fierce happiness, that Athos starts to feel weak with it. He moves closer to Porthos, embraces him a little firmer, and for a moment Porthos lets go of Aramis, and takes him into his arms, holds him warm and tight. “You did well, love.”

He does not say any more, and he does not need to. The tone of his voice says it all, as does the warmth of his embrace – the way he presses his cheek against Athos’.

Porthos is proud of Athos, he is happy for him, happy for _them_ , and he loves both Athos and Aramis so much that he is ready and willing to do everything in his power to be there for them.

It is all there, between his words and the way he touches, and Athos can hear it all.

He just hopes that, with Porthos at least, Aramis can hear it, too.

Athos clings to Porthos for a moment longer, breathes in his scent, and listens to his heartbeat, until he eventually loosens the embrace enough so Porthos can reach out to Aramis again, look down at him and stroke his fingers over his cheek, “Aramis needs to tell me all about that talk, I think.”

Aramis smiles, still so very radiant, and he nods, and kisses Porthos’ wrist once more. “Anything, my dear Porthos – anything.”

Porthos huffs out a laugh and gently manoeuvres Athos onto the bed next to Aramis. He looks down at them, at the way they sit side by side, and his expression turns infinitely fond. “You look awfully pretty together, did I ever tell you that?”

“You mentioned it once or twice,” Athos drawls, smiling up at him without restraint. Suddenly Aramis is clinging to him, has thrown both arms around Athos and is holding on to him with rather excessive force, as he pushes his face into Athos’ neck – similar to the way Athos held on to Porthos only moments ago.

When Athos wheezes under the unexpected onslaught, Aramis’ embrace turns gentle rather abruptly, but he does not let go of Athos.

He never lets go.

“You look so good when you smile at him like that,” Aramis whispers against his skin, sounding dreamy and content, and Athos turns his body towards him, acceptant of his embrace, and looks up at Porthos again.

Porthos is neither grinning nor smiling anymore. Instead he looks peaceful, utterly satisfied. “You really do, love,” he says, and his voice goes directly to Athos’ core, makes its home there, safe and comfortable, “you have a good smile.”

“Will you two stop,” Athos says, suddenly fighting a flush that threatens to make a victim of his whole body.

It is curious, how his body reacts to their praise, how it no longer recoils from it, but instead allows it in eagerly, and strains toward it with every fibre of its being. He still feels unworthy of it, in a way, but hearing words like these does not hurt him anymore … not at all.

Porthos promptly starts grinning again. “Nah, you’re pretty when you get all flustered, too.” With that he crouches down in front of Athos, leans forward and kisses him. His mouth is warm, and his lips are soft, and Athos closes his eyes.

Aramis is still holding him, is holding him close, safe and warm, and a helpless noise of longing escapes Athos’ throat when he opens his lips to Porthos. They kiss so differently, Porthos and Aramis, and Athos will probably never understand how his body, despite everything, falls such easy prey to their charms each and every time.

He used to have some self-control, Athos thinks … or maybe that was just the fear of being touched, the fear of enjoying what he had sworn never to allow himself to have again.

Kissing Porthos is like coming home after a long day out in the snow, and all Athos wants to do is curl up in front of the fire and rest his weary bones. It will feel so good to give in to him – it will fix the chinks in his armour and make him ready for battle once more.

It will fix _him_.

The kiss does not last all that long, but Athos’ whole body responds to it, is warm and relaxed when Porthos pulls back and adopts a smug grin. “I had to eat both your breakfasts, by the way.”

Aramis chuckles against Athos’ neck, and turns his head so he can look at Porthos. “What a hardship that must have been for you.”

Porthos leans forward and kisses him as well, “You have no idea.” He clears his throat. “The Whelp and I reported to the Captain, once we’d gotten rid of all that food.”

Athos blinks and brings his somewhat dreamy gaze into focus. “Ah, yes. What did Monsieur Duvall have to say about Felicia?”

“He said she’s a nice enough girl, and that he has not seen her in a few days,” Aramis murmurs, depicting signs of pouting. “Do we really have to talk about this now?”

Athos turns his head and kisses Aramis’ temple. “Yes,” he replies firmly, “we do. What do you make of his answer?”

Aramis sighs and pulls his arms off Athos’ middle, heaves himself into an upright position – just to move closer to Athos on the bed, until their thighs touch, and their shoulders brush against one another. “He didn’t appear to be lying,” he says, a slight frown on his face. “But I must admit that his general behaviour seems … odd to me.”

“He’s a bit foppish,” Porthos says, his voice thoughtful, “just without the powder and stuff.”

“His manner is certainly somewhat affected,” Athos agrees, “but that might stem from his connection to the Court.” He thinks for a moment. “We should make inquiries about the stolen headdress – surely such a valuable piece of jewellery does not simply vanish into thin air.”

“Yeah, I already sent d’Artagnan to a few people who might know about it,” Porthos says, “I just hope they haven’t seen him in our company yet. I told him to go to the garrison once he’s done.” He slaps Aramis’ and Athos’ thighs, none too gently, “So come on – maybe there’s some food left – you two haven’t had anything since yesterday, and it’s past midday already.”

He gets up to get his belongings from the window sill, and Aramis huffs. “Will you stop feeding us!”

“Someone has to do it,” Porthos replies tranquilly, pulling on his gloves. “You tend to my wounds, I make sure you eat – works for me.”

“It certainly does not do any harm,” Athos agrees, and Aramis’ head whips around towards him, his eyes wide in feigned astonishment. He even moves away a little from Athos, makes a grab for his chest for good measure, hands placed over his heart. “Porthos, did you _hear_ that?”

“I most certainly did,” Porthos chuckles.

Athos fails to contain a smile.

“First he acknowledges the need for sustenance, and now he smiles,” Aramis exclaims, and this is what Athos _wanted_ , this is what he has missed so dearly, “will the wonders never cease?”

Athos reaches out to him, puts his hand on Aramis’ neck and pulls him back in. “You would do well to get used to it, my friend.”

He has enough time to see Aramis’ eyes widen and watch a spark of amazed laughter come to life in them, and then they are kissing, sweet and unhurried.

Athos loves kissing Aramis like this – without the underlying need to prove anything, just for the sake of kissing, of being close to each other.

Porthos keeps quiet for a long while, but eventually he clears his throat. “You have completely forgotten that we intended to go out, haven’t you?”

Athos promptly releases Aramis’ lips, pulls back a little and is rewarded with the satisfaction of watching Aramis blink his lids open, a dazed expression on his face. “Eh?”

Porthos huffs. “Food, Aramis – you need to eat!”

“Athos started it,” Aramis points out, blinking his eyes into focus and licking his lips. “You can hardly blame me for reciprocating.”

“I can blame you for anythin’ I like,” Porthos replies, “now get up.”

“ _Masterful_ ,” Aramis comments in a low voice, and Athos sees Porthos stiffen, sees a haunted expression glide over his face and be replaced by stubborn casualness.

It makes him get up and walk over to Porthos, makes him reach out his hands and put them on Porthos’ cheeks. Porthos looks down at him, surprised and tense at first, but soon he softens, and eventually smiles.

“I’m good,” he promises quietly. “I just don’t like that word.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Aramis asks, instantly afraid to incur censure once more. “What was it? What did I do?”

Athos and Porthos share a long look.

Porthos’ eyes are beautiful, even more so when they look at Athos in a manner far too close to adoration, and Athos almost gets lost in them. His thumbs brush back and forth over Porthos’ cheeks several times until their silent conversation comes to an end.

Porthos eventually shrugs his shoulders, happy and relaxed, and Athos smiles at him, decides to be honest. “Porthos does not like the word _master_ ,” he says in a soft voice, “least of all in attribution to himself.” He turns his head to look at Aramis, and encounters a somewhat confused gaze.

Then Aramis’ eyes widen, and he lowers them towards the ground. “Has this … have you –“ he bites his lip, “… you have talked about this before? … You … you called him by that word?”

“… Yes,” Athos admits, and his chest constricts for a moment, while heat spreads inside him – while his blood quickens in shame. He reaches up to the bandana around his neck, puts his palm over the scar it hides – the mark Aramis left on him.

Aramis’ eyes follow his movement, and he flushes. “… I see. I … won’t say it again.”

“You spoke in jest, it’s alright,” Porthos soothes him. “I know you didn’t mean anythin’ by it.” He beckons Aramis closer and pulls him into his arms once he complies. “We’re good, kitten.”

Aramis pushes into his embrace with his whole body, and Athos does not know why he deems this moment to be the right one. Maybe because he feels safe, with Porthos so close; maybe because he believes Aramis could not be safer than he is in Porthos’ arms.

“Aramis – do you … do you know why I would call him by that title?” he asks, and he sees Aramis stiffen, and cling to Porthos a little harder.

“I … I remember how you … how you would not let me untie the bandana from around your neck the first time I tried,” Aramis replies, his voice muffled against Porthos’ chest. “I remember how you … how you reacted to him touching you, the night we came back to Paris after we’d collected the tax-money from Rouen.”

Aramis’ voice breaks and he clears his throat, and Porthos brings his arms up to stroke over his neck and back, while his eyes are fixed on Athos. “And what do you think about that?”

Aramis lifts his head, and looks at him. “Think?” He turns his head, and looks at Athos, and his eyes hold an expression Athos has never seen before. “I knew that you belonged to each other before that,” he says, his voice hoarse, “it is no business of mine how you … that you …” 

Aramis’ voice fizzles out like a wet candle-stick, and Porthos carefully clears his throat. “Athos is afraid you might not … like the idea of me takin’ control sometimes – of him givin’ in and lettin’ go,” he says softly. “Is he right about that?”

Aramis turns his head back towards him, and _flushes_ , all the way down his neck and chest. “I like the idea,” he whispers, and grins up at Porthos, surprisingly shy, but indisputably intrigued. “I bet you’re really good at it, too … at taking control.”

“He is,” Athos says softly. “Very good.”

Both Aramis and Porthos are looking at him now, and while Porthos’ face is neutral, Aramis’ pupils have dilated, and his lips are parted.

Athos studies him, studies his expression, and his mouth pulls into a smile. “Would you like to watch, Aramis?”

Aramis’ throat produces a little noise, almost like a whimper, and Athos lifts his hand, puts it against Aramis’ cheek, strokes his thumb over his cheekbone. “Tonight, when we get back home, would you … would you like to see it?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, breathy, almost inaudible, “y-yes, I would … like to see it.” He turns around in Porthos arms, reaches out to Athos and grabs his shirt, pulls Athos close enough to breathe his air. “I … I imagined it so often … I couldn’t help myself …”

Athos moves towards him and they kiss, open-mouthed and needy – nothing like the kiss they shared before. Aramis’ words echo through Athos’ head, cause a spinning sensation that spirals down into his chest, and then lower, ignites a fire in his blood.

He sucks Aramis’ tongue into his mouth, and his hand moves from Aramis’ cheek into his hair, pulls on it, just hard enough to make Aramis moan.

For one long moment all Athos is aware of is Aramis’ taste and his smell, and the way his knuckles graze Athos’ chest when he grabs his shirt a little tighter.

Then Porthos moves, puts his hand on the back of Athos’ head, and lower, lets his palm rest above the bandana around Athos’ neck. “You’re gettin’ him all worked-up, love.”

Athos pulls back with a gasp and an indecently wet noise, and when he looks at Aramis, his eyes are all black, his cheeks flushed – and he moves forward with a whine, trying to get Athos’ mouth back.

Athos lets him, keeps still and returns his kiss, but this time he is gentle and careful, kisses Aramis until he has calmed down, and his grip on Athos’ shirt no longer threatens to do permanent damage to the fabric.

“Oh God,” Aramis whispers against his lips when the kiss finally ends, “Athos, how _could_ you …”

“The question needed to be asked,” Porthos explains calmly when Athos does not say anything in answer to this, “and it was high time at that.”

A breathless laugh shakes through Aramis’ body, and he lets go of Athos’ shirt, rubs his hand over his face, takes a number of deep breaths. “And you expect me to go out into the streets now and act as though nothing of significance has happened – is that how it is?”

“Yes,” Athos says, his voice warm, “will you do that for us?”

Aramis’ hand falls down at the question, and he stares at Athos, speechless. Apparently anything and everything Athos says today is worthy of staring.

“You’re bein’ deliberately teasin', love,” Porthos chastises him affectionately. “Show some kindness to our kitten, will ya?”

“No, no – don’t tell him to stop,” Aramis urges, and the smile that springs onto his face looks as helpless as it looks delighted. “I love it.”

His admission leaves Athos helpless with affection, and he brushes a strand of hair behind Aramis’ left ear. “I love you.”

Aramis’ eyes go very soft, and he leans into Athos’ touch, replies that he loves him, too. Athos turns his head then, and looks up at Porthos, because if he can say it to Aramis, surely he is able to say it to Porthos as well. “I love you.”

Porthos grins at him, wide and joyful, and he leans forward a little, until he is almost nose to nose with Athos. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough and fond, “I know.”

He kisses Athos on the lips and straightens, lets go of them both and puts his jacket back on. Athos watches him, his body flooded with light, content and happy.

Porthos knows. For him at least Athos did not fail to express his feelings, did not fail to make him certain of it.

“Will you get dressed?” Porthos asks them when they do not move by themselves, and steps over to the foot of the bed to pick up their jackets. “D’Artagnan will think somethin’s wrong when we make ‘im wait for us any longer.”

That spurs Athos into action, makes him take his jacket from Porthos and put it on, and Aramis moves too, though not quite so hasty. “Clearly, you did not think matters through when you told him to wait for us at the garrison,” he says lightly. “You should have known that Athos and I would need some time to ourselves.”

Porthos just looks at him, lifts his brows and adopts a challenging expression, and Aramis ducks his head and grins, admitting defeat.

“You had plenty of time to yourselves,” Porthos claims. “It’s not my fault you must needs squander it all over the place.”

“We did not squander anything,” Athos interrupts their banter. “I would even go so far as to say we made the best possible use of it.”

Aramis looks back up at that, his expression clearly victorious, and Athos can only imagine that he is precariously close to sticking his tongue out at Porthos.

Porthos grins, and his dimples are especially prominent for a moment. “Yeah, alright, fair enough.” He studies their progress. “Are you ready then?”

“Yes,” Aramis admits with a little sigh, “sadly, we are.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Porthos says while he opens the door for them, “you have tonight to look forward to.”

Aramis informs him with as much dignity as he can muster that he is an evil bastard who should be locked up in the darkest dungeon.

Porthos merely snickers.

 

D’Artagnan is pacing the yard when they arrive at the garrison. He stops dead in his tracks as soon as he spots them, and then he hurries over, eyes bright with worry. “What took you so long?” His eyes scan Athos’ face, jump towards Aramis, and finally stare at Porthos for guidance. “Are you alright?”

“They’re good,” Porthos soothes him, his voice decidedly parental. “Athos … talked.”

D’Artagnan blinks and then his eyes scan Athos once more, as though he was a whole new species. “Talked?” he echoes, vaguely doubtful.

“Yeah,” Porthos grins, steps over to the boy and throws his arm around his shoulders. “Just look at Aramis, he’s all but glowin’ with it.”

Aramis moves towards Athos at that point, steps up right next to him, and leans in to whisper into his ear. “I want to kick him.”

“You can try,” Athos drawls back, “but I would refrain from that if I were you.”

Aramis sighs and straightens and puts both hands on his belt, grips it tightly. “I shall have my revenge,” he decides. “Later.”

Aramis probably knows as well as Athos does that Porthos is very likely to turn that sort of thing around on him _whenever_ Aramis might decide to execute his vengeance, so Athos remains silent. Instead of replying he looks at d’Artagnan, by now apparently soothed and calm, gazing back at Athos with a pleased little smile.

Athos sighs and walks over to him. “You really should not listen to everything Porthos says.”

Porthos, still standing next to d’Artagnan, lets out an amused huff, and the boy’s smile widens. “But he would never lie to me.”

Athos has to admit that this is correct, and d’Artagnan adopts a fond grin. “So you really … you really talked to Aramis?”

“Is that so odd?” Athos asks back, and this time d’Artagnan is the one who huffs and shakes his head, not offering any reply.

Athos gives up. “What did you find out about the headdress?” he inquires, trying to adopt a professional demeanour. It seems to work, for d’Artagnan straightens his shoulders beneath Porthos’ arm, and his expression sobers.

“Not much,” he says. “There were some whispers about a Spanish noble-man who wanted to buy jewellery _worthy of a queen_ , but nothing more.” He looks terribly young for a moment as he ponders the idea. “I don’t quite see how a Spanish noble-man would fit into all this.”

“Yeah, it’s a right mess,” Porthos agrees. “Nothin’ seems to fit. I only hope that Flea can bring us this Felicia, otherwise we’ve pretty much run out of leads.”

Athos frowns. “If there was indeed a Spaniard, and an aristocrat no less, our native nobility may know of him – may give us a name.” His frown deepens. “I doubt he ventured into Court, though.”

Porthos clears his throat, and when Athos looks at him, an almost boyish discomfort seems to cling to his person. “I … could ask Alice,” he offers.

Aramis makes a noise of faked distaste. “Must you remain in friendly contact with all the women of your past?”

“I try to,” Porthos bites back, bristling for a moment, and Aramis swallows, and evades his gaze.

“Yes, well, I don’t have to like it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Porthos growls at him, finally takes his arm off d’Artagnan’s shoulders and makes a grab for the front of Aramis’ jacket, pulls him closer. “I left her for _you_ , didn’t I?”

D’Artagnan clears his throat in a rather exaggerated manner at that point, and Athos bites his tongue. Aramis looks a tad flushed all of a sudden, insecure like one of the young maidens he so likes to flirt with, and when he peeks up at Porthos through his lashes, he looks more appealing than he has any right to do. “You did?”

Porthos growls once more. “I told you as much!”

“You did,” Aramis admits, shyly grinning up at him. “I forgot.”

“Strive to bear it in mind this time around,” Porthos tells him, and turns his head to look at Athos. “You want me to talk to her? She’s … around town all the time now since she’s come out of mournin’.”

“Yes,” Athos replies slowly, his face carefully blank, “of course.”

Porthos winks at him. “You can come with, make her acquaintance.”

He pronounces the last word with an obnoxious lilt to his voice, utterly out of character, and Athos very nearly laughs. “It would be my pleasure.”

“It will be,” Porthos nods, “cause you _are_ comin’ with me.” He pulls his shoulders up, looks a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I haven’t talked to her since.”

D’Artagnan clears his throat again, apparently just as uncomfortable as Porthos. “What should I do in the meantime?”

“Yes,” Aramis pipes up, apparently grateful for the boy’s initiative, “what would you have us do while you two visit the lovely Alice?”

Porthos glares at him, and Aramis ducks his head. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re testin’ my temper,” Porthos corrects him, “and if you don’t stop soon, I’m gonna put you over my knee.”

“Yes _please_!” Aramis exclaims, his smile radiant, and d’Artagnan clears his throat yet again.

“I’ll go check whether they really haven’t heard of this Spaniard at Court, yes?”

Athos smirks and nods at him, and he stomps off, apparently all too willing to leave them behind.

“But what about me?” Aramis pouts.

Porthos moves to stand next to him and claps him on the back, none too gently. “You can come with us, visit the lovely Alice.”

Athos does not feel even a hint of compassion when he sees Aramis wince.

 

The Villa Clerbeaux is of mediocre size, well-kept, and just on the edges of fashionable Paris. A long-nosed butler admits them into the house, and betrays by a quiver of the nostril what he thinks of Porthos’ business with his mistress.

As soon as he has moved out of sight – but not necessarily out of earshot – Aramis, otherwise so easygoing, hisses out a string of expletives that could probably strike that austere butler dead where he stands.

“I don’t remember that one,” Porthos comments tranquilly, almost succeeding in hiding his hurt feelings, “he must be new.”

“We should drop the lady a hint,” Aramis hisses, still upset, “I wouldn’t want her to keep a man like that in her employ.”

“No,” Athos agrees smoothly, suppressing his own anger as best he can, “we wouldn’t want that.”

He hates when this happens – as it far too often does – abhors the pain on Porthos’ face when people look down on him because of the colour of his skin. It angers Athos when they overlook the insignia on Porthos’ shoulder, and everything he achieved – when they remain blind to the greatness in him out of narrow-minded stupidity.

He just does not understand how people do it. Porthos shines so very brightly in his eyes, is so kind and good, such a gentle man.

Even before Athos realized he loved him, he always knew Porthos’ worth, was never in doubt about it.

Porthos moves closer to him and squeezes Athos’ shoulder just when the butler returns and asks them to follow him into the library. The man looks a bit pale, not to say scared, and Athos can only assume that Alice already took exception to his no doubt censoring description of her guests.

Alice is standing next to a comfortable looking arm-chair when they enter the library, a discarded book lying behind her on the lavishly upholstered seat. Her smile, when she directs it at Porthos, is warm, if a bit strained, and she walks towards him with outstretched hands, not wasting a thought on propriety or rules of conduct between a widowed lady and a musketeer.

Porthos smiles as well, takes her hands into his and lifts them to his lips, kisses her fingers. He does not let go of her hands once he has lowered them again. “Hello, Alice.”

“Porthos,” she says, conveying a wealth of meaning with the one word, while stars seem to come to life in her eyes as she gazes up at him, “it has been too long.”

 _This_ , Athos decides, must be what jealousy feels like.

Aramis moves closer to him, close enough so their elbows touch, and when Athos turns his head to look at him, Aramis seems to be grinding his teeth.

Strangely enough, it makes Athos feel better.

“You have brought friends?” Alice inquires at this point, and Porthos finally releases her hands, and turns around to introduce them.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a bit rougher than usual, “this is Athos –“ Athos executes a slight bow while she inclines her head, “and Aramis.”

Aramis steps forward to kiss her hand as well, and she lets him, but her smile is more polite than delighted, and she pulls her hand back almost immediately. “I take it this is an … official visit?”

“Yeah,” Porthos admits, and ducks his head. “We kinda need your help?”

His sheepish demeanour seems to work its charm on her as much as it always does on Athos, and she turns back to him, that glowing smile back in her eyes. “I am delighted to offer you whatever help I can.”

“Thank you,” he says, heartfelt and honest, and tells her the reason for their visit.

She frowns, once he is finished, and lifts her hand to the pearl necklace around her throat while she contemplates an answer. Her fingers play with the long string for a moment, and Athos, watching her, has to force himself not to touch the bandana secured around his neck.

“Yes, there was a Spanish noble-man,” she eventually says in a thoughtful voice, “his name is Estavan Vela, I believe. A rather … theatrical man, very well-dressed, very punctilious in all forms of conduct.” Her expression turns sour. “I found him excessively oppressing.”

Porthos smiles fondly at her, “That I can very well believe. Did he say anythin’ in your presence that supports our suspicion that he might be connected to the theft?”

She frowns even heavier than before. “He is very … how do I put this … squeamish? I do not believe that he could cut a man’s throat and walk away from such a gruesome crime instead of sinking down right next to his victim in a dead faint.” She bites her lip. “He is a proud, conceited man, though – boasted that there was nothing in this world he could not achieve once he had set his mind to it.” She pulls a disapproving face. “He is very rich, you see.”

“I see,” Porthos says, a slight growl accompanying his reply.

She tilts her head at him, “Does this help you at all?”

Porthos looks around at Athos, and Athos nods his head. “Yes, I believe it does. You would not happen to know whether he is still in the country?”

Alice shakes her head. “I do not think so, no. When invited to a soiree for tomorrow night, he declined, giving his departure from France as the reason.”

“Thank you,” Athos says, his voice warm with honest gratitude. “Your testimony has been of great help.”

She seems surprised to hear this, and directs a questioning glance at Porthos, who chuckles. “He really means it.” He looks at Athos and sends a proud smile his way, “You got somethin’ out of this, yeah?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, “I did.”


	6. Chapter 6

“So tell us,” Aramis urges Athos when they are once more on the doorstep of the Villa Clerbeaux, “what precisely did the lovely Alice say that caused your sudden revelation? Because to be quite honest I do not think this fine Spaniard is our culprit.”

“No,” Athos agrees, stepping down into the street and pulling on his gloves, “he is not.”

He can _feel_ Aramis and Porthos exchanging a look behind him, and allows a little smile to hide itself in the corners of his mouth as he elaborates. “While I do not think him to be responsible for the attack on Michel, I believe he is the one responsible for the headdress’ disappearance.”

“You mean he hired someone to steal it from Duvall?” Porthos grunts, audibly displeased. “Maybe even paid Felicia to do it?”

“No,” Athos replies, “I think he bought the headdress from Monsieur Duvall, and paid him a very generous price for it.”

His words are followed by a moment of silence, and they have walked halfway down the street before Aramis speaks up.

“He was searching for jewellery worthy of a queen,” he says slowly, “and what better is there than a piece actually made for her to wear?”

“But once it was sold to the Spaniard, Duvall couldn’t very well go to the King and tell him that someone else paid him a better price,” Porthos continues, “a _far_ better price, probably. So he had to stage a robbery.”

Athos inclines his head in agreement. “That is what I believe, yes. Sadly, we have no proof at all for this. Michel cannot speak –“ he hesitates, and lifts his brows. “But Duvall was the one who told us that, was he not? Maybe we should pay a visit to the boy after all.”

 

They stop by the garrison to inform the Captain of their theory, and collect d’Artagnan while they are there. He has no news for them, as the attendants at Court had been unaware of the presence of Estavan Vela in France.

Vela’s family is well known, has a good reputation, and rumour has it that it is one of the most wealthy in all of Spain.

“His wealth would most certainly enable him to pay Duvall then,” Athos muses when they leave the garrison together with the boy. “There would be no need for violence.”

“But what if Duvall refused his offer?” d’Artagnan argues, “what if he preferred to honour his contract with the Crown?”

“I would find it suspicious that Duvall did not mention him to us then,” Athos replies with a slight drawl. “Of course we must first establish that there has been contact between the two. Otherwise all we have is a theory – which is better than nothing, I suppose, but still no more than a theory.”

They cross the market on their way to Michel’s home, and Athos stops in his tracks when he recognizes that same red-haired woman he saw with Flea this morning, glaring daggers at them.

She beckons him closer with an impatient toss of her head, and since she is not wearing her knives quite so openly now, he accepts that invitation without a moment’s hesitation.

“Queen wants to see you,” she informs him curtly once he is within earshot, and bites a smile in Porthos’ direction, “found the girl.”

With that she turns and leaves them standing there, and Athos directs a somewhat surprised glance at Porthos, who shrugs, “Flea’s very efficient. Always has been.”

“She works very fast indeed,” Athos comments, and looks at Aramis. “Take d’Artagnan with you to Michel. Try to question him as best you can. Porthos and I will go back to the Court, and meet you at the garrison afterwards.”

Aramis nods and walks off with d’Artagnan, and Athos and Porthos turn towards the Court.

“I’m gonna need a third breakfast if this walkin’ back and forth doesn’t stop soon,” Porthos states. “At least I have tonight to look forward to.”

Athos turns his head to look at him, but Porthos is keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“Are you looking forward to it?” Athos asks him softly, and sees a smile take over Porthos’ profile.

“Course I am!” He casts a glance at Athos out of the corner of his eye. “I enjoy takin’ care of you like that – you know that, right?”

Athos flushes a little, and clears his throat. “I was referring to Aramis participating.”

Porthos smirks at him. “Course you were.” He puts his hand on Athos’ shoulder, steers them around a little wagon standing by the side of the street, and does not let go immediately afterwards. “I look forward to him joinin’ us, too,” he murmurs, “I think he’s gonna … fit right in.”

Athos flushes a little more, and Porthos fixes a concerned gaze on him. “You want him to, yeah? You didn’t just offer because you felt bad for him?”

“No, no I really –“ Athos takes a deep gulp of air and tries to slow down his suddenly tumultuous pulse, “I really want him to.”

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, and finally lets go of his shoulder. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to do this for anyone but yourself.”

Athos has to fall back a step in the narrow street to avoid walking into a cluster of geese roaming the cobbles, and he stares at Porthos’ profile while his mind is whirling, shifting to make space for Porthos’ words.

“For myself?” he says once he’s back at Porthos’ side, and Porthos turns his head and smiles at him.

“Yeah. It’s somethin’ you enjoy, right? Somethin’ that’s good for you, that makes you feel good.” He looks ahead once more, and gently pushes his way through a gaggle of unkempt children, “Somethin’ like that should be savoured, should be treated like … like a gift.”

His brows furrow into an expression of contemplation and his mouth pulls into a slight pout. “And it’s yours to give away, you see? – But only if you really want to.”

His earnest tone makes Athos smile, and he nods in agreement. “I see.”

Porthos takes a peek at him. “You’re awfully calm about this all of a sudden.”

“Yes, well,” Athos feels inclined to shrug his shoulders, but does not, “the argument you brought forth this morning was a convincing one. I am doing my best to adopt your views.”

He receives a beaming smile as a reward, but then Porthos’ face clouds over. “Did you really think I’d condemn you for it?” he asks, sounding torn between indignation and worry, “Did you think I’d consider you a burden?”

“… No, I did not,” Athos replies after thinking the question over. He is unable to keep the gloom locked inside his throat and out of his voice, “It was what I thought of myself, and it needed your … quite different opinion to adjust and soften my self-assessment.”

“Yeah, you’ve always been far too hard on yourself,” Porthos muses. The beaming smile from before springs back onto his face, delighted and proud. “I’m real glad I could talk you out of that.”

Not out, Athos thinks, but towards the shore. The water he is treading is no longer quite so murky, and he is able to see the ground at last. Without Porthos he still would be lost out at sea, drifting and without an anchor, weightless.

Without Porthos he never would have found the strength to promise Aramis a glimpse at what he so dearly wants to see.

 

When they arrive at the Court, Flea is waiting for them in the alley leading into it, a young girl next to her, pale and visibly frightened. The alley is otherwise empty, devoid of the occupants that made it impossible for Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan to get to Porthos once, but Athos does not think they have gone very far.

Should Flea desire it, they will return, and do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety of the Court of Miracles and its residents.

The girl standing beside Flea is rather tall, and fits the description Duvall’s neighbours gave them, Athos observes: willowy with flaxen hair and dark blue eyes. Her clothing is modest, but dirty – by the looks of it she has not enjoyed the comforts of a proper home for days.

There is also a fading bruise high on her left cheek.

She recoils from them and tries to hide herself behind Flea when they approach, and Athos can _feel_ Porthos shrinking beside him, feels him hunch his shoulders and lower his head, and adopt that big-eyed, innocent expression of his that works so well on children and frightened women.

Flea smirks when she sees it, and puts a calming hand on the girl’s arm. “Those two are harmless, I promise,” she says, “proper gentlemen, both of them.”

The girl relaxes, but only a little, and when her eyes meet Athos’, her body twitches in fright, ready to flee.

“She was hiding in some back alleys,” Flea says, her voice softer than usual while her grip on the girl’s arm fastens. “Seems to have been there for a few days. Had a run-in with a ‘horrible man’ – that’s all I was able to get out of her so far.”

Athos, by now familiar with the proceedings in such a case and all too willing to let Porthos work his magic, stands back while his friend crouches down in front of the girl – taking away all of his imposing height, and looking up to her out of soft brown eyes.

Felicia blinks down at him, astonished and confused, but when Porthos smiles at her, she smiles back.

“I’m Porthos,” he introduces himself, and inclines his head backward into Athos’ general direction, “and that’s my friend Athos. Is your name Felicia?”

She nods and executes a neat little curtsy, “Yes, Felicia Cloutier, milor’.”

Athos blinks in surprise at such unexpected reverence, and Flea seems hard at work suppressing a snort, but Porthos’ smile widens. “That’s a pretty name. Suits you well.”

She dimples and blushes, and Flea stares heavenward and rolls her eyes. Athos would like to tell her that Porthos took that particular compliment from Aramis’ repertoire, but remains silent.

To interrupt Porthos now would be immensely stupid.

“Felicia, do you know a Michel Bernard?” Porthos asks her, and she pales once more, loses all that blood to her cheeks Porthos’ innocent compliment had supplied her with.

She does not answer.

Porthos tilts his head, “Was he the horrible man who hurt you?” he asks, “Because I can hurt him right back if you want me to.”

“No!” she exclaims, and the blood rushes back into her face. “Michel is my friend – he would never hurt me!” Her eyes blaze as she stares down at Porthos, and Athos watches her ball her hands up into fists.

She looks ready to fight anyone who might dispute her friendship with Michel, even Porthos if necessary, and Athos warms in sudden esteem for her.

Porthos somehow manages to adopt a sober expression, befitting the situation. “I understand,” he says gravely. “Then I won’t touch him, of course. But if he wasn’t the one who frightened you, then who was it? Because me and Athos, we don’t like that kind of thing, you know? We’d like to tell him to stop.”

Felicia hangs her head, hopeless, and all that sudden confidence and spirit seem to drain right out of her again. “You can’t. He knows the King. He’ll have you killed.”

Porthos turns his head to look at Athos, and they smile at one another.

“We know the King, too,” Porthos tells her with that same smile, and she lifts her head to stare at him in amazement, “and that horrible man would have to learn that we musketeers are rather hard to kill.” He starts to grin and points at the scar across his left eye. “See: where do you think I got that one?”

She looks eager, suddenly, and far younger than she is, and Porthos chuckles. “I’ll tell you that story if you tell me yours: who’s the horrible man, and what did he say to you to make you so afraid?”

 

An hour later finds Athos and Porthos back at the garrison. The sky is turning dark by then as the sun is sinking beneath the horizon. Aramis and d’Artagnan are waiting by one of the braziers in the yard, warming their hands above its fire. They look around as soon as Athos and Porthos walk through the gate, and d’Artagnan immediately pulls a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket, waves it in their direction, his face victorious.

“We got him! Michel might not be able to talk, but he can _write_!”

Even in the gloom Athos can see that a single word is written on the paper; a name, to be precise.

“I hope you got this in answer to a distinctive question,” Athos drawls, “and did not simply ask him to write down the name of his employer.”

“Of course not,” Aramis scoffs, visibly offended. “We managed to establish that Duvall attacked him from behind, and struck his head. We talked to the doctor who patched him up, too. According to him Michel’s throat was cut very delicately, very carefully, just barely deep enough to do any damage at all – that’s quite a feat, needs someone with a very steady hand – someone who makes fiddly things like gold-filigree all day for example.” Aramis frowns. “Duvall seems to believe that as long as Michel does not talk, there is no way to expose his crime.”

“Seems his greed for Spanish coin was stronger than his affection for the boy,” Porthos grunts, disgusted, and casts a look at Athos. “Together with Felicia’s testimony, we should be able to nail him down, shouldn’t we?”

“Oh, you did talk to her then, yes?” Aramis asks eagerly. “Tell us!”

“She caught him chattin’ to that Spaniard,” Porthos replies, “runnin’ up the prize as high as it would go.” His face darkens. “So he hit her, threatened her with all kinds of nonsense, and chased her off. She hasn’t been home since – was scared out of her wits.”

“We brought her home,” Athos says to forestall the question so clearly visible on d’Artagnan’s face. “Her parents were very grateful – and Porthos made a new friend.”

“Of course he did,” Aramis sighs. “Must we prepare for visits of lovelorn damsels to the garrison now?”

“You’re a jealous arse,” Porthos informs him good-naturedly. “Should’ve expected that, really.” He ignores Aramis’ spluttering in reaction to this verdict, and turns his head towards Athos. “What do we do now? Do we arrest Duvall?”

Athos frowns, and contemplates the situation for a moment. “I believe it is for the King to decide what to do with Duvall. For he did not murder Michel, merely harmed him – and he was the one who called the doctor.”

Porthos grunts, clearly dissatisfied with the situation, but keeps quiet. It is d’Artagnan who voices everyone’s thoughts. “He won’t be punished for that, will he? For hurting his apprentice? Instead the King will send him to prison for selling the headdress – for betraying the Crown.”

“Very likely, yes. But at least he will be punished,” Athos replies.

“And Felicia tells me that Michel is the one who’ll inherit the business,” Porthos supplies. “Duvall set him up as his heir – there’s a proper will and everythin’, the papers are all there.”

“Ah, Felicia tells you that, does she?” Aramis cuts in, smiling brightly, and d’Artagnan huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, she _does_ ,” Porthos growls out, grinning, “she _also_ tells me that she plans on marryin’ Michel – ‘s just that the daft bugger hasn’t asked yet.”

Aramis smiles even brighter at that, and turns his head to the right and upwards when Treville steps out of his office and onto the balustrade, “Our tireless investigation has born fruit, Captain!”

Treville smiles down at him, “I am glad to hear it – and the King will be just as glad, I am sure.”

Athos goes up to him then, to inform him of what they have found out. After that he can do nothing but leave it to his superior to notify the King of their findings, and do with them as he pleases.

When he comes back down the steps, Aramis is eyeing him eagerly, and sudden heat unfurls in Athos’ chest. It has been a long, eventful day, but in that moment, Athos’ body remembers none of it. Instead it is all heartbeat, drumming with sudden desire.

He knows this gaze, has seen it so often before.

“Are we done for today then?” Aramis asks, “Are we free to go?”

Athos is indeed very familiar with Aramis in this state – but always in relation to a stranger, to someone Aramis was so eager to get to that he could barely wait to be released from his duties.

To witness that same eagerness in relation to himself causes a pleasant warmth in Athos’ body, a feverish longing to be alone with Aramis and reward him for such unexpected fervour.

But they are not alone, they are in public, and all Athos can do is reach up to touch the bandana around his neck – all he can do is give in to the itch in his fingers to press down on it, to make the cloth feel heavy and warm on his skin.

Aramis watches him do it, and his gaze turns dark and heated.

“We are free to go,” Athos says, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. For a moment he almost forgets where they are, almost steps in front of Aramis and asks him to put his hands on him, to touch the scar on his neck, maybe put his lips there.

“Good,” Porthos says from somewhere to their right, his voice penetrating the mist around Athos’ mind. “It’s time you two ate somethin’.”

Aramis’ head jolts around towards him, and he opens his mouth to pour forth what will most likely be a colourful insult, but Porthos forestalls him. “Seriously,” he says, and his voice dips lower, adopts a certain rasp, “you need to eat, Aramis. Otherwise you won’t last long.”

Aramis shuts his mouth rather abruptly at that, and executes a neat full-body turn where he is standing.

Athos can only conclude that he is looking for food. He smiles, amused, while Porthos starts to laugh. “I asked Serge to put some bread and meat aside for you – come on.”

He puts his hand on Aramis’ shoulder and pulls him towards the kitchen, and d’Artagnan clears his throat. “So, I’m going home now, I guess?”

“You’re eatin’ with us,” Porthos corrects him, “celebrate a successful mission.” He starts to grin and affectionately pats Aramis’ shoulder. “I can’t promise that we’ll behave ourselves, but we’ll at least try.” He turns his head to look at Athos, laughter in his eyes, “Right?”

“Yes,” Athos drawls, drinking in that smile, basking in its warmth, “we will try.”

D’Artagnan does not look particularly convinced when he accompanies them into the kitchen.

 

They eat – not too hastily, because Porthos would chastise them if they did – and go home afterwards. D’Artagnan bids them goodnight with a soft little smile, far too knowing for Athos’ taste, but then, they have not been precisely subtle.

Aramis especially has been rather forward with his affections throughout the meal. He spent at least half the time more on Porthos’ lap than the bench they were sharing, kept pressing his calves against Athos’ beneath the table.

Now that they are on their way towards Aramis’ lodgings, he keeps close to Athos, allows their elbows to touch while they walk side by side, even brushes his fingertips against Athos’.

His behaviour kindles a fire inside Athos, makes him long for privacy and a safe space to let go of the chains that bind him – the ones that keep him on his feet when he wants to be on his knees so very badly.

He takes a deep gulp of fresh night air and flushes when Porthos’ bandana rubs against his skin, bound just tightly enough to make him feel it. His whole body is tingling by the time they reach Aramis’ lodgings, and Athos knows that it will take nothing more than a word, no more than a gesture from Porthos to cause his mind to drift away from him, and his body to give in to pleasure.

Porthos casts him a look through the darkness while they wait for Aramis to unlock the door, and Athos’ knees nearly give in when he sees the expression on his face.

There is warmth there, a smile just to the left of Porthos’ mouth, and his eyes are too knowing, too earnest by far.

Porthos _knows_ what state Athos is in, and he will take care of him like he always does.

They look at each other, and not a single sounds comes over either of their lips, but when Aramis pushes the door open, Porthos reaches for Athos, grabs Athos’ elbow and pulls him inside. Athos comes willingly, so desperate to be touched that even this sends a spark of heat through him, makes him bite his lip to hold in a moan.

“Shh, ‘s alright, love,” Porthos whispers to him, his voice as steady as his touch. He kicks the door shut behind them and pulls Athos a little further into the room. “I got you – Aramis and I, we got you.”

The chains around his self-control fall off Athos so suddenly, drop off him the precise moment Porthos closes the door, and he clings to the leather of Porthos’ uniform and hides his face against Porthos’ chest, takes a few deep breaths, “I – I need –“

Everything seems to float away from him – everything but Porthos, who seems neither surprised nor unwilling. He gently pushes the hat off Athos’ head, puts it to the side with his right hand while his left arm curls around Athos’ waist and holds him up. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I know.”

“Porthos,” is all Athos manages to get out in reply, and it feels as though the name shivers through his whole body – loosens his limbs as he gets drunk on Porthos’ warmth.

As much as he needs this, as long as he delayed it, Athos still did not expect quite such a strong reaction. He does not even find it in himself to be nervous about Aramis witnessing him breaking down.

“You want me to make you comfortable?” Porthos whispers, and his right hand comes up to the back of Athos’ head, strokes his hair, “Want me to get you naked?”

His voice weaves a net around Athos, pulls him closer and into shallow waters, where Athos cannot hide from him any more.

“Yes,” Athos murmurs, and his lashes flutter closed as all tension bleeds from his body, “yes, please.”

Porthos gently pulls him towards the bed, turns him around and makes him sit down, and Athos re-opens his eyes – looks directly at Aramis, who stares at him from across the room, his expression unreadable in the dark.

His fixed stare does not come so much as a torrent of cold water as a slight jolt to Athos’ system – brings him back into himself, and makes him blink his eyes into focus. “Aramis?”

For a long moment, all Aramis does is _breathe_ – deep, desperate gulps of air – and Athos watches him, watches his heaving chest, and doubt slithers back into his heart. “Aramis?” he asks again, in a broken voice, tentative and barely audible.

The sound seems to startle Aramis, and he blinks his lids as though he was in a daze, trapped inside his own head. Then he moves, sudden and hasty, crosses the room in a few steps and falls to his knees in front of Athos – looks up at him with wide eyes, drinking him in.

Now that he is so close Athos can see how flushed Aramis’ face is, how unfocused his gaze. “It does not repel you?” Athos asks, his voice scratchy and insecure, and Aramis reaches up to him, cups his cheek with a glove-clad hand.

“Not at all,” he says, his voice just as rough as Athos’, “God, Athos you –“ he stops and takes a shaky breath, “Not at all.”

Athos smiles, leans into his touch and allows his lids to droop, and Porthos gently clears his throat behind Aramis. “Want me to go on, love?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers, rubbing his cheek against Aramis’ hand, “please do.”

He senses more than sees Porthos move, and it feels as though there is a physical connection between them even now – as though he was tied to Porthos by invisible strings.

“Get him out of his uniform, Aramis, and sit beside him on the bed once you’re finished,” Porthos says calmly, “I’m gonna get a fire goin’.”

Aramis’ throat produces a nervous sound at the order, and Porthos crouches down right next to him, leans in and brushes a kiss to his lips. “Just be gentle and slow about it,” he murmurs, and somehow it does not sound like instructions at all, but like seduction, makes Athos bite his lip again, “caress him, tell him how pretty he is – you’re good at that, aren’t you?”

Athos watches as Aramis opens his mouth to kiss Porthos a little deeper, a moan falling over his lips – watches as Porthos pulls back with a smile, “Don’t lose your head, kitten. He needs you to take care of him tonight.”

Aramis blinks at him, startled for a heartbeat or two, and swallows – takes a deep breath. “I thought … I thought I was going to watch.”

“I’m right here,” Porthos soothes him, as patient and gentle with him as he always is with Athos, “come on now, kitten – you’ve undressed him before.”

Aramis still looks hesitant. “Are you sure he wouldn’t prefer you to –“

“Athos, darlin’, do you want Aramis to get you nice and naked so I can take proper care of you?” Porthos interrupts him, his voice still gentle, and Athos smiles at him, reaches out to take Aramis’ unresisting hand.

“Yes, I want that – please.”

Aramis swallows, stares at Athos and licks his lips, and does not pull back his hand.

“There you go, kitten. He knows what he wants – always does.” Porthos brushes a kiss to Aramis’ cheek and stands up, takes off his uniform jacket and steps over to the fireplace.

Aramis stares at Athos for a moment longer, and then he moves as well, a resolute expression slowly taking over his features. “I love you,” he tells Athos as he takes off his gloves – pulls the gloves off Athos’ fingers directly afterwards, entwines their fingers. “I love you so much.”

Athos looks into his eyes, allows the words inside to fill him to the brim with light, and he smiles, easy and soft. “I love you, too.”

A hissing noise from the fireplace lets him know that Porthos is fast with bringing a fire to life, and Athos smiles even wider with the knowledge that he will return to them any moment now.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this – “ Aramis fingers shake a little as he releases Athos’ hand to unbutton Athos’ jacket – as does his voice. He is gentle, like Porthos asked him to, careful and slow, and Athos feels as though he is coming apart beneath his hands, as though each removed item of clothing bares another part of his soul to Aramis.

Aramis is not as calm and confident as Porthos, nor is he as commanding. Still, Athos trusts him, enjoys his shy care just as much as he enjoys Porthos’.

Aramis will not hurt him, nor does he look down on him for allowing this to happen.

Athos keeps still while Aramis undresses him, listens to his voice while Aramis tells him how beautiful he is, how special, how much Aramis longed to touch him all day – how much he _always_ longs to touch him.

It goes to his head, that voice, makes Athos feel drunk and hot, spirals out into his blood and down towards his groin; it feels like a physical touch, makes his cock swell inside his smallclothes and push up against the leather of his trousers.

“To have you look at me like this,” Aramis whispers as he leans over Athos to lift the shirt over his head, “it means so much to me.”

A shiver runs through Athos as the fabric leaves his skin, leaves him exposed to Aramis’ eyes and the air of the room – not quite warm yet, chasing goose-bumps down his spine.

He looks up when Porthos moves to stand behind Aramis, watching them both with dark eyes, softly smiling. “You enjoyin’ yourself, love?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, and he does not know why Porthos’ voice makes it so easy to let go – so easy to succumb and be weak.

His cock swells a little more just from hearing it, and it feels as though he was already naked beneath his gaze.

“Is Aramis doin’ well then?” Porthos asks, grinning now, his teeth flashing white, “Is he makin’ you feel good?”

“Yes,” Athos says again, as Aramis’ hands drop down to his groin, unbutton his trousers, “ … he makes me feel so good.”

Aramis takes a shaky breath, and his knuckles graze Athos’ cock, tease a moan out of him. “God, Porthos, he’s so –“

“Yeah,” Porthos says, his voice low and pleased, “I know.” He sounds fond and proud – crouches down next to Aramis and looks up at Athos with that dark, glittering smile that moves through Athos’ body like a wave of warm water, leaving him weightless and tingling. “You’re just perfect, love … so beautiful and perfect, just for us.”

They pull off Athos’ boots next, push him down onto his back and order him to lift his hips, and Athos complies, willing and eager, steadied by the security in Porthos’ voice, by the love in Aramis’ touch.

They pull down his trousers and drag them off his legs, and he does not feel exposed although he is wearing nothing but his undergarments now. He wants to be naked, wants them to see him, to see all of him, and do with him as they please.

He lies on his back and looks up at them, watches the firelight play over their faces, and it feels as though he is settling into his bones more comfortably … as though his skin fits him better than it did before.

“Alright, that’s enough for now,” Porthos says softly, and Athos watches him touch Aramis’ shoulder, squeeze it gently. “Get comfortable and sit down on the bed, yeah?”

Aramis smiles at him and nods. “I knew you’d be good at this.”

Porthos returns his smile, wide and confident, and winks at him. “Well, I’m doin’ my best.”

Athos is still lying on his back, thighs spread, his feet on the floor, and Porthos steps in between his legs and leans over him, strokes his rough palm over Athos’ naked chest. “You still good, love?”

“Yes,” Athos breathes out; his nipples are hardening under Porthos’ touch, and he arches off the bed as his eyes fall shut and his lips fall open around a moan, “thank you … thank you for … for letting me …”

“Always,” Porthos murmurs, gently lowering him onto the mattress, both of his hands on Athos’ shoulders. He shifts his weight and his left hand stays where it is while his right reaches down and between Athos’ legs and cups him over the linen of his smallclothes. “I’ll always let you show me just how beautiful you are, love.”

He drags his fingertips along the length of Athos’ cock, gently presses down on the tip with his thumb, and Athos whines and spreads his legs a little wider.

“What do you want, love?” Porthos asks him, his tone commanding and gentle all at once. “Tell me what you need.”

Athos claws his fingers into the bedding, torn between simply pushing into Porthos’ touch and voicing his desire. Then he pulls himself up, grabs Porthos’ hips with both hands and pushes his face in the linen of Porthos’ shirt.

“Use me,” he begs, “tell me what to do.”

He hears Aramis make a noise then, as if he is fighting too hard to keep a moan locked inside his throat. Athos shivers as the sound reminds him of Aramis’ presence – of Aramis’ eyes, watching him – and he turns his head to the side, opens his eyes and looks at Aramis, sitting at the head of the bed, naked but for his undergarments.

“I want to show Aramis,” he murmurs, “how good I can be for you.”

Athos can feel Porthos take a deep breath against his cheek, and he grabs his hips a little tighter, presses his fingertips a little deeper into Porthos’ hot skin.

“Yeah,” he hears Porthos say, his voice low enough to send another shiver down Athos’ spine, “let’s show Aramis just how good you are, love.”


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos cards his fingers through Athos’ hair, gentle and careful, and Athos closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch.

This … this is it. He has been waiting so long for this.

He could not allow his mind to fully drift while Aramis was disrobing him – Aramis was too insecure to give Athos the sense of complete security he needs, so Athos kept holding on, just a little.

Now that Porthos is the one taking matters into his hands, it is so much easier to let go, and Athos slumps on the edge of the bed and rubs his cheek against Porthos’ belly while he holds on to his hips with both hands, fingers spread wide.

“Shall I get naked for you, love?” Porthos asks him, stroking his hand over Athos’ head – so gentle, always so very gentle. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, his voice dreamy, and Porthos’ fingers glide through his hair once more, grab it, and slowly pull his head backward.

Athos looks up at him, feeling exposed and _safe_ , and Porthos smiles, lets go of him and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion that steals the breath right out of Athos’ chest.

Porthos looks beautiful in the firelight, his dark skin so inviting that Athos’ fingers twitch with the need to touch and explore. But he keeps them where they are, keeps them on Porthos’ hips and allows his eyes to glide over the exposed skin instead.

The shirt drops to the floor, and Porthos moves out of Athos’ reach for just a moment, leaving Athos yearning for physical contact, while he gets rid of his boots. He is still smiling when he steps back in front of Athos, but it is a different smile now, stronger somehow, not bright but warm – private and intimate. It seems to Athos as though he is witnessing Porthos slipping on the mantle of care-giver that fits him so perfectly – he can see it settling over Porthos’ shoulders, can see it in his stance, in the bow of his neck; and when Porthos speaks, even his voice sounds a little different. “Take care of my trousers, love.”

Aramis, sitting at the head of the bed, just to the left of Athos’ peripheral vision, takes a deep breath at that, but does not say a word. 

Athos is so desperate for the smallest command that he obeys instantly; his fingers fumble with the lacing at first, but he entangles the knot soon enough. His gaze is fixed on Porthos’ groin, his whole mind bent towards his task and the thought of getting Porthos’ cock inside his mouth.

It has been too long, he has almost forgotten his taste, and Athos licks his lips and bites down on the bottom one, bites down on the whine trying to escape his throat.

“You’re eager to have it, aren’t you?” Porthos says quietly, puts his hand under Athos chin, strokes his thumb over his beard as he gently lifts Athos’ head.

Athos nods while shivers of heat chase each other through his body; he presses into Porthos’ touch, feeling weightless, floating, and then the lacing finally gives in to his fingers, and he can push Porthos’ trousers down his hips.

Porthos is half-hard inside his smallclothes, and the linen only accentuates that fact. The sight draws a moan out of Athos, loud enough to almost tune out the heavy intake of air from the head of the bed – a clear sign that Aramis is just as affected by the state of Porthos’ arousal.

Athos’ own cock swells even more, presses up against the leather of his trousers insistently enough to be uncomfortable, and he leans forward, starts to unlace Porthos’ undergarments even before Porthos asks him to.

“So greedy,” Porthos whispers, his voice fond and rough, clearly approving. His hand drops down to Athos’ neck, squeezes gently through the fabric of the bandana.

Athos moans again, and his mouth starts to water, while his gaze shifts in and out of focus. He feels feverish with need, and anticipation is turning breathing into a task of labour.

He wants this so much – so much indeed that he falls forward the moment the final knot loosens and he can push the last shred of fabric off Porthos’ hips, can finally take him into his mouth and –

“Not quite so hasty, love.” Porthos holds him back, his hand pulling on the bandana before he squeezes Athos’ neck once more – turning him into a helpless, mindless toy, so aroused that it boils through his veins like liquid fire.

Athos whines, and Porthos’ hand on his body is just heavy enough, his grip on him just firm enough to make him feel anchored and safe. “Please – please let me –“

“I’ll let you,” Porthos promises him, “but we’re not quite there yet.”

He leans forward and brushes a kiss to Athos’ forehead and another one to his lips when Athos lifts his head, silently begging. Athos pushes his tongue out and licks over Porthos’ lips, submissive and pleading, and makes a happy little noise when Porthos opens up for him and meets Athos’ tongue with his own.

Athos tries to get more, tries to make Porthos lick inside his mouth and take control of it, but all Porthos does is brush the tip of his tongue against Athos’ – playful and teasing, no matter how much Athos whines at him, no matter how much he begs.

Athos feels him smile into the kiss, loving and tender, and eventually Porthos pulls back and straightens, brushes his fingertips through Athos’ hair. “Can you stand up for me, love?”

Athos nods, eager and wide-eyed, and Porthos takes his hands, pulls him up and steadies him when he sways. “Good, love, well done,” he praises, voice low and warm, and Athos leans forward, wants to be closer to him, always closer.

“I’m gonna get you naked,” Porthos tells him, “gonna show Aramis how much you enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, his voice thin and breathy, and he watches from beneath drooping lids as Porthos unlaces his undergarments, watches Porthos’ hands on the white fabric, laying his arousal bare for everyone to see.

Athos gasps when the linen finally falls to the floor, when he is standing naked beside the bed, his cock curving up towards his stomach, and Porthos drags a tantalizing fingertip along its underside, root to tip.

Aramis does not make a sound, but Athos can feel his eyes on him all the same, feels the weight of his gaze on his skin and flushes, gratified and excited.

“Look at you,” Porthos murmurs, spreading the pre-come with his thumb before he lifts it to his mouth and licks it clean. Athos’ knees nearly buckle at the sight, and Porthos throws his arm around him and pulls him against his chest so he does not fall to the floor. “You like that?”

Athos can only nod, leans his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder and does his best to fill his lungs with air. His whole body feels hot, but somehow Porthos is still warmer, feels so good against him … always so warm.

“Do you need a moment, love? Do you wanna sit back down?” Porthos asks, and the concern in his voice sends a trickle of additional heat down Athos’ spine.

“I want to … want to …” he licks his lips, pushes his hips forward, and Porthos chuckles.

“Want my cock in your mouth?”

“Yes,” Athos moans, and now he hears Aramis make a sound, hears the echo of his own moan leave Aramis’ throat, strangled and helpless.

It only adds to the tingling sensation chasing Athos’ blood through his veins.

“Alright, then let me make sure you’re comfortable,” Porthos says, strokes his hands over Athos’ back and slowly lets go of him. “You’re good?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, steady on his feet again. His right side is to the bed now, he is almost facing Aramis – and he watches as Porthos spreads a few of Aramis’ blankets and furs on the floor, with the softest on top, thick and comfortable.

The firelight plays over Porthos’ skin, makes him look impossibly tall – even stronger than he is, indestructible and beautiful like the heroes Athos read about when he was a boy. He cannot stop staring at the way Porthos’ skin shimmers, drawn taut over muscle and flesh, looking soft and inviting despite his scars.

“Down on your knees then,” Porthos says once he is done, standing upright in front of Athos, a dark smile in his eyes. Athos drinks in the sight of him, strong and commanding, and he obeys, sinks down into the nest Porthos made for him, aware of Aramis’ gaze on him – aware of it and grateful for it.

Finally being on his knees feels good, feels _right_ and Athos spreads his thighs, leans back and lifts his chin, bares his throat to Porthos.

Porthos looks down at him for a moment, and then he tilts his head, his gaze clear and focused. “I’m gonna take the bandana away now, love – so you can feel my skin on yours when I touch you, eh?”

Athos consents with a little nod, and Porthos sets to work, loosens the knot and rids Athos of the last scrap of fabric covering him.

He is fully naked now, on his knees on the floor, safe and protected – free.

“There you go,” Porthos murmurs, regarding him once more, his eyes travelling the expanse of Athos’ body, and Athos wants to wait, wants to wait until Porthos is ready and tells him what to do, but it is so hard, and he needs –

“You know what to do to get me to stop?” Porthos asks him, his voice caring despite the directness of the question, and Athos licks his lips.

“I pinch you.”

“Good,” Porthos says, “that’s right. You want me to fuck your mouth now?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, and the eagerness in his own voice sends a flush up his cheeks and down his chest, “yes, _please_.”

Porthos smiles and steps closer to him, takes himself in hand, and for a heartbeat or two Athos does not understand what’s happening when Porthos does not immediately take possession of his mouth, but turns his head to the left, “You seein’ alright?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, his voice drowning in lust, and Athos understands, “oh God, yes.”

Athos lifts his chin to look at him, and as far gone as he is, he still registers the longing on Aramis’ face, the desperate need – can see Aramis’ straining cock inside his smallclothes, hard and curving upwards, tip peaking over the hem of the linen.

“You better touch yourself, kitten – there’s no need for you to suffer,” Porthos tells him, voice earnest and full of warmth, and Aramis takes a deep breath and puts his right hand between his legs – obeys Porthos just as automatically as Athos does.

Porthos makes a pleased noise, and Athos licks his lips, hoping he will finally get what he has been craving for so long. He looks back up at Porthos, pleading, begging him with nothing but his eyes, and Porthos smiles, reaches down to him and strokes his cheek. “Open up, love.”

Athos’ mouth falls open and he leans forward eagerly, lets his lashes flutter closed. He hears Aramis moan, and then the tip of Porthos’ cock touches his lips, pushes between them.

Athos loves this, loves the sensation of being filled, loves the thought that he is pleasuring Porthos by doing this, by letting him use his mouth. He opens up wide, relaxes his jaw and allows Porthos to fill him up slowly and steadily. He can feel him swell between his lips, drinks in his taste and his smell.

“You’re doin’ good, love,” Porthos tells him, and Athos squirms happily, opens his eyes to look at him, to see the smile he can hear so clearly in his voice.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Porthos murmurs then, brushing the hair off Athos’ forehead, “keep lookin’ at me, darlin’ – let me see just how much you love suckin’ my cock.”

Athos moans – together with Aramis – and he keeps his eyes open, just like Porthos wants him to.

He loves looking at Porthos’ face while pleasuring him – always loves looking at Porthos’ face. He will never get enough of his eyes, of the way Porthos’ smiles sweeten his whole expression, turn that fierce warrior into the man he lost his heart to.

Athos will always do anything Porthos asks of him, will always be eager to do his bidding. Giving in to him feels far too good not to.

“Come on – use your hands on me,” Porthos requests next, “show me all those tricks you’ve learned – show off for Aramis a bit, eh?”

An eager noise escapes Athos and he attempts a nod, pulls back just far enough so he can suck on the tip of Porthos’ cock, closes his right hand around the shaft, and shivers in pleasure when Porthos hums in approval.

He moves his head back and forth, his whole mind focused on the task of satisfying Porthos, and he does not heed the saliva dripping down his chin, pays no attention to his own arousal, curving up between his thighs, leaking at the tip.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Porthos tells him, his voice rough and low, and Athos’ cock twitches in reaction to it, leaves smears of pre-come on his belly. “You’re bein’ so good for me, love.”

Athos whines, low in his throat, and he stares up at Porthos, pleading once more.

“You want it harder?” Porthos asks, “Want me to fuck your mouth properly?”

Another whine, desperate and needy, and Porthos nods, a grim smile rushing over his features. “Then put your hands on my hips, and keep nice and still for me.”

Athos obeys without stopping to think. There is no conscious thought, no _decision_. Porthos was certainly right when he said that it was _trust_ Athos is giving him. He has all of it, always will.

Porthos starts moving as soon as Athos complies, as soon as Athos’ hands are on his hips and he is holding on to him – and Athos moans in delight, relaxes his throat and allows himself to be used. He can hear Aramis’ hasty breathing over the rushing of his blood in his ears, and when he allows his adoring gaze to drop off Porthos’ face and over to him, Aramis is staring back, mouth open, hand around his flushed cock.

“Is he watchin’ us, love?” Porthos growls in a low voice, “Can he see how good you are for me?” His hand is in Athos’ hair, pulls on it ever so lightly, and Athos can feel how reality is finally slipping away from him, and his whole world turns to bliss.

Porthos is rough with him, just like Athos wants him to be, and he does not even try to contain the sounds bubbling up his throat, he lets them all out, muffled only by the cock in his mouth.

It has been so long since Athos last did this, has been so long since he let his control slip and allowed himself to just … be. His body is humming with it, and light is singing through his veins, sending sparks into every particle of his being.

His cock feels heavy between his legs, he is far too close to coming already, and the longer Porthos uses him, the harder he thrusts into his mouth, the more Athos fears he will reach his release.

Untouched, without permission.

The pleasure is too intense to allow any real discomfort into his mind, but still Athos starts to squirm, tries desperately not to give in.

He does not want to, not yet.

Eventually Porthos stops moving, pulls out of his mouth despite Athos’ needy whimper, and brushes his thumb over Athos’ swollen lips. “What’s goin’ on, love?”

Athos licks over the digit, sucks it into his mouth, and Porthos huffs out a laugh, fond and aroused, and pulls it away. “Tell me.”

Athos takes a steadying breath, “I do not –” He licks his lips and looks into Porthos’ eyes. “I do not wish to –“

Porthos’ mouth pulls into a smile. “You’re afraid you’re gonna come?”

“… Yes,” Athos admits, and there is a hissing sound from the head of the bed.

When Athos looks, Aramis is touching himself, his long, slender fingers wrapped around his cock, and his pupils are blown so wide that he looks drunk with lust.

Porthos smirks. “How about we make Aramis come first, love? You can lick him clean when we’re done, eh?”

Athos merely nods, unable to voice his approval, and Aramis whimpers when Porthos grabs Athos’ hair a little firmer, and pulls him forward and onto his cock once more.

There was a hidden command in Porthos’ words – not to come until Aramis does, to hold out as long as he can – and it makes it easier; obeying him makes it so much easier for Athos to keep his release at bay.

Porthos uses him a little rougher than before, and Athos’ jaw starts to ache, and his throat starts to feel raw with it.

He loves this feeling, loves the sensation, has missed this just as much as the rest of the experience. He can taste it when Porthos is close to coming, can feel it in the way Porthos’ muscles tense beneath his touch, and the knowledge pushes through his whole body, makes him moan even louder than before.

Then Porthos stops moving, his breathing laboured, his voice a growl. “How about I come on your face, love?”

Aramis makes a desperate sound at the question, and Athos pulls his mouth off Porthos’ cock with an indecently wet noise, takes a deep breath, “Yes, yes, _please_ , I want that.”

His voice is wrecked, sounds rough and used, and Porthos smiles, quick and dirty. Athos stares up at him and then over at Aramis, and his body feels light with the way they both look back, without even a hint of contempt.

“Please, Porthos,” Athos begs when he manages to drag his gaze away from Aramis and his soft black eyes, “please do it.”

“Close your eyes then,” Porthos tells him, his voice kind beneath the order, and Athos does.

He closes his eyes, trusting. Always trusting.

He keeps his mouth open, lips just slightly parted, waiting eagerly, and takes a gasping breath when Porthos’ release hits his skin, so much hotter than he remembered it from the last time.

Athos lifts his face into it, licks off whatever he can reach with his tongue, and when he hears a drawn-out moan from the bed he knows that Aramis has reached his climax as well – knows that he performed to both his lovers’ satisfaction.

The knowledge makes Athos smile, wide and happy, and Aramis sighs and whispers his name, reverent.

His voice echoes through Athos’ floating mind, and he is aching with the desire to be close to him. The thought of licking Aramis’ release off his skin flickers up, adds heat to the fire burning through him, and when Porthos puts his hand beneath his chin, Athos takes a deep breath and keeps perfectly still.

“Beautiful,” Porthos says at length, and Athos flushes at the praise, licks his lips again, waiting for Porthos to release him and set him free to collect his reward from Aramis.

“Just a moment,” Porthos says, as though he is reading Athos’ thoughts, “keep your eyes closed just a moment longer, love. I’m gonna clean you up real quick.”

Athos hears him step away, hears him return, and then there’s a wet cloth on his face, skin-warm and rough. He keeps still while Porthos takes care of him, keeps still while Porthos wipes the cloth over his face – until he is satisfied, and brushes a kiss to Athos’ forehead. “There you go – all pretty.”

Athos blinks his lids open, smiling, and finds that Porthos is smiling back at him. “You did so well, love – made me feel so good.”

He puts his hand on Athos’ cheek, caresses his skin, and Athos leans into it, his mind drifting peacefully. His whole body is pleasantly warm, floating with the knowledge that both Aramis and Porthos found their release because he was good – because he was good for them.

His cock is painfully hard by now, but Athos stays where he is.

Porthos lets him be for a moment, waits until Athos nuzzles into his touch, and then he crouches down in front of him, strokes the hair out of Athos’ face with gentle hands. “Wanna get into bed and take care of Aramis with me now?”

Athos smiles a little wider, dreamy and trusting. “Yes, I would like that.”

“You would, eh?” Porthos murmurs, brushing his thumb over Athos’ cheekbone. “Can you get up then? Or do you need my help?”

Athos makes a valiant effort and manages to get up from his knees at first try. He is not quite as sure on his feet as usual, so Porthos steadies him, puts his hands on Athos’ waist and holds him still.

Their eyes meet, and Athos sways closer to him, tilts his head up. He receives the kiss he craves, sweet and gentle, and sighs, closes his lids.

Porthos moves a step closer to him, his thumbs rubbing back and forth on Athos’ waist, and Athos’ sigh turns into a moan when his cock brushes against the soft skin of Porthos’ belly.

He feels so hot, feels drunk with need, and he clings to Porthos like a child.

“Come on then,” Porthos whispers against his lips, the smile audible in his voice, “Aramis is waiting for us.”

He walks Athos over to the bed and lets go of him when Athos drops on hands and knees to crawl up the mattress, between Aramis’ legs. Athos can feel Porthos watching him, feels his gaze as though it was a physical touch, even while he is looking up into Aramis’ eyes.

Aramis is still wearing his undergarments, has barely shoved the linen off his hips – has pushed it down just far enough so it falls open around his groin. His hand is still around his soft cock, his release painting his stomach and chest, and he keeps staring at Athos, his chest working under deep, regular breaths. He looks vulnerable and open, and his eyes track Athos’ movement up the bed, still so very soft, reverent and loving.

“Athos,” he whispers, his voice a warm breath of air, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as wonderful as you.”

He bites his lip when Athos kneels between his spread thighs, when he bends his head and licks over his chest, tastes him. A moan falls over Aramis’ lips then, and he reaches out with his free hand, buries his fingers in Athos’ hair, holds on to him.

“Did you enjoy yourself watchin’ us?” Porthos asks him, and Aramis whimpers, arches forward towards Athos’ mouth.

“Yes, yes I did – of course I did, Porthos – how could I not? You were both so beautiful, and the way you just – how he just –“

Porthos sits down beside him, leans into him and interrupts him with a kiss, and Aramis whines when Athos licks over his right nipple, chasing an errant drop of come.

His fingers tighten in Athos’ hair for a moment, and then he breaks free from Porthos’ kiss with a gasp, and his touch turns tender and careful. “Is he – is he still -?”

“All safe and happy?” Porthos supplies. “Yeah. Will be for a while yet.” He reaches out to Athos, puts his hand on his neck, squeezes a little. “You needed this, didn’t you, love?”

Athos looks up at him through his lashes, his whole body focusing on the touch to his neck, and he stops moving for a heartbeat or two, lips parted, panting.

Aramis’ taste is mingling with Porthos’ on his tongue, his whole body feels flushed and feverish, and he is ready to lose himself between his lovers even more, to give them anything they might ask of him.

Porthos squeezes his neck more firmly, his hand hot and rough on Athos’ skin. “You enjoy Aramis’ watching you? You like cleanin’ him up?”

“Yes,” Athos murmurs, sounding as one half asleep, and then he leans forward once more, resumes his task; he licks down towards Aramis’ navel, licks over the fingers wrapped around Aramis’ cock, and licks them clean, one by one.

“How – how long does he usually …” Aramis’ voice peters out gradually, and he starts petting Athos’ hair, gentle and loving, making Athos hum with happiness.

“As long as it takes,” Porthos says, brushing his thumb over Athos’ pulse. “He’s been goin’ without a bit too long, needs it more than usual.” He spans his fingers over Athos’ skin, strong and scorching, strokes the scar on Athos’ neck.

Athos moans, pants against Aramis’ stomach, and spreads his thighs wider as the sensation sends a bolt of heat through him and down to his cock. He feels the warmth of the fire at his back, and for a moment it mingles with the flame burning inside of him, setting everything ablaze.

“Should – should we do something?” Aramis asks, sounding overwhelmed, as Athos presses his face into his skin, his voice rough and aroused, “should we … take care of him?”

“Yeah,” Porthos murmurs, and Athos can hear the dark smile under the words, the promise of pleasure. “I thought I’d get you nice and slick for him – let him fuck you.”

Aramis curses then, in Spanish, low and colourful, and Athos opens his mouth, kisses the soft spot just beneath his navel, lets his tongue glide over it.

“You like the idea?” Porthos asks, sounding smug, and Aramis curses again. His curses sound like endearments, like declarations of love and devotion, and Athos looks up at him, looks at his face, and smiles.

“I want to.”

Aramis stops talking then, stares at Athos, arousal and awe fighting for dominance on his features. He looks so beautiful, Athos thinks, so vulnerable and soft.

“You hear that?” Porthos grins, satisfied and proud, “He wants to.”

“Yes, I heard,” Aramis replies, his voice faint, and brushes his fingers though Athos’ hair once more. He looks into Athos’ eyes, awestruck and adoring, “You’ll feel so good inside me.”

Athos nearly falls into him with the sudden, frantic need to kiss him.

Porthos lets them, allows them to kiss until they are both panting, and Athos has painted Aramis’ belly with pre-come from rubbing against him. He feels wanton and needy, and his mind is still floating so very high, just barely secured by Porthos’ anchoring calm; Aramis’ kisses taste like wine, make him long for more, always more.

He barely notices when Porthos leaves Aramis’ side, when he gets off the bed and leaves them kissing, leaves Athos to lie down on top of Aramis and kiss him until they are both drunk with it.

When Porthos returns, he brings the scented oil with him, sits back down beside Aramis and puts the bottle on the small table beside the bed. Athos and Aramis are still kissing, wet and unrestrained, and it has never felt like this before, the fire never felt so good.

“Look at you,” Porthos murmurs after he has watched them for a while, “can’t get enough, can you?” His voice sounds sweet and rough, like honeyed gravel, and Athos moans against Aramis’ lips, desperate for more.

“You can keep kissin’ for as long as you like,” Porthos says, “but you gotta turn around for me a bit, yeah? I can’t slick Aramis up like this.”

They break apart, just long enough so Porthos can arrange their limbs to his satisfaction, roll them both onto their sides, face to face, and finally get Aramis out of his smallclothes.

“Never took you so long to get naked before, eh?” he teases, and Aramis grins at him over his shoulder, all fond and loving.

“Things were never quite like this before.”

“I bet,” Porthos agrees, and gives him a peck on the lips. “There you go, kitten, all ready to be ravished.” He looks at Athos from behind Aramis’ back, his eyes warm and caring. “You good, love?”

“Very,” Athos replies, feeling safe and content in Aramis’ arms.

“Good,” Porthos says, lowering his head to kiss Aramis’ shoulder, “put your leg over his hip, yeah? Gimme some space.”

A low whine escapes Aramis’ throat, and he does as he is told, lifts his right leg and hooks it over Athos’. The pose pulls Athos nearer to him, traps his leaking cock between them, and Athos’ eyes roll back into his head as his body is overwhelmed by the sudden closeness.

He pushes his face forward, hides it against Aramis’ chest, and almost cries with pleasure when Aramis brings up his arms and curls them around him, pulls him even closer.

“I love you,” Aramis whispers into his ear, “I love you, I love you.”

When Athos lifts his head to answer, Aramis kisses him before he has even opened his mouth. Athos sighs into the kiss, happy, blissful, and pushes into Aramis’ embrace with his whole body.

He hears Aramis gasp into their kiss when Porthos starts to open him up – when he presses an oil-slick finger against his entrance and pushes inside.

Aramis’ body goes relaxed and pliant, eagerly accepting the intrusion, and his kisses turn softer, slow and sweet, infinitely tender.

“That looks really nice,” Porthos comments after a while, and Aramis moans when he adds a second finger. “Love watchin’ you kiss – makes me go all warm inside.”

A helpless noise escapes Athos’ throat; he licks over Aramis’ lips, teases his tongue between them.

“Shh, love, I’ve almost got him ready for you,” Porthos soothes him, and Athos pulls back from the kiss and the tempting warmth of Aramis’ mouth, lifts his head to look at him. Porthos smiles when he notices, and winks. “You look good, love – all flushed and glowin’.”

Athos bites his lip, squirming happily against Aramis, and Porthos’ smile turns dark and predatory. “Are you lookin’ forward to fuckin’ Aramis?”

Athos nods, licks his lips and rubs his cock against Aramis’ stomach. “I love him so much.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, leaning in to kiss Aramis’ shoulder, “I know. I love him too.”

Aramis shakes between them, and he pushes his face into Athos’ neck, clings to him. “You are … you are both so …”

“Tell us,” Porthos demands when he does not finish, “tell us, kitten.”

“You are so good,” Aramis whispers, “so good to each other – so good to me. I don’t ever want to lose this – I need you so much.”

As light and fearless as Athos feels right now, he still understands what Aramis is saying, still feels the weight of the words. He turns his head so he can kiss his cheek, closes his eyes while doing so. “Always,” is all he says.

“You’re not gettin’ rid of us, don’t you worry,” Porthos adds. “We need you just as much.” He spreads his fingers inside Aramis, and Aramis gasps, shakes a little harder than before.

“I never thought I’d get to have something like this.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Porthos agrees. “’S nice of Athos to allow us, isn’t it?”

“So good,” Aramis moans, and his hands glide over Athos’ back, up and down, “he feels so good, Porthos. He’s so beautiful – I don’t know how you – how you can always be so –“ The rest of his sentence gets cut off by another moan, and yet Athos glows with it, feels light and hot thanks to his words.

“Go on,” Porthos urges with a little smile, “tell him.”

“How you just opened up for him,” Aramis gasps, and he is pushing back onto Porthos’ fingers now, half-mad with need, turns his head into Athos’ neck and licks over his sweaty skin, licks over the scar and sends a flash of want through Athos’ blood, “you – you looked so good sucking his cock … I never thought you could be like that, so free and trusting … and how he touched you, how he touched your hair – he loves you so much, Athos, l-loves you so much.”

They are pushing against each other now, and Aramis is half-hard again, rubbing up against Athos’ straining cock, only stoking the fire burning through them both. Athos wants to be inside him, needs to feel his tight heat, sink into his body and claim Aramis for himself.

He wants to show Aramis how much he loves him, how deeply he cares.

“Porthos,” he whispers, and his voice does not sound like himself, not at all, “Porthos, _please_ , I need him.”

“And he’s all ready for you,” Porthos whispers, “nice and slick.”

Athos lifts his head at the words, cranes his neck and watches as Porthos pulls his fingers out of Aramis, leaves him empty and yearning – begging Athos to fill him up again.

It seems as though being close to Athos in this state – when he is at his most defenceless – has reduced Aramis to a similar condition, made him just as desperate and needy.

“Please,” he whispers, searching for Athos’ mouth with his own while his hands roam over Athos’ back, down to his ass, and grab on to him, “please Athos.”

“Yeah, kitten, you get him, don’t worry, you get him,” Porthos murmurs, soothing and soft, steady as ever. “All we gotta do is get you on your back.” He moves, pushes himself up and kneels on the mattress behind Aramis, gently pulls on Aramis’ shoulder until he is lying on his back.

It seems good enough for Athos, but Porthos does not appear to be satisfied, frowns for a moment before he moves off the bed altogether and collects the blankets he had Athos kneel on earlier off the floor. “Sit up kitten, come on.”

He pulls on Aramis’ shoulder once more to help him, and Athos helps as well, eager to be of assistance, climbs between Aramis’ spread legs and holds him up while Porthos spreads the blankets over the head of the bed, builds a comfortable cushion for Aramis to rest on.

Once everything is placed to his satisfaction, Porthos makes Aramis lie back down, makes him lift his hips and places another folded blanket underneath, leaving his ass elevated, his arousal on display.

Athos kneels between Aramis’ spread legs, just breathing for a long moment, gazing down at his lover. Aramis is flushed and sweaty, his chest heaving with hasty breaths, and his hands are lying above his head on the blankets, fingers curled … passive.

He looks open and vulnerable, and his eyes are pleading, stare up at Athos with adoration in their depths. “Please,” he says again, “Athos, please.”

“You heard him, love,” Porthos murmurs, and suddenly he is kneeling behind Athos on the bed, “better fill him up, give him what he wants, eh?”

Athos can feel his heat over the whole length of his back, so much better than that of the fire, can feel his strength and steadiness, and something inside Athos cracks and falls into place.

“Show me how,” he says, ready to be used yet again, and Porthos chuckles, his breath stirring the hair behind Athos’ left ear.

“I can do that.”

He leans forward, plasters his chest to Athos’ back, uses his strength and his weight to push Athos forward as well, until he can grab Aramis’ hips. “First we gotta get a bit closer to him, don’t we, love?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, looking down into Aramis’ eyes, putting his hands above Porthos’ on Aramis’ skin. Aramis is silent, lies still for them and _waits_ , is biting his lip and arching his neck. Maybe he is trying to keep control over himself, maybe he just enjoys the slight sting of pain, Athos cannot be certain.

All he knows is that he craves to be inside Aramis, to make him feel just as good as Porthos did when Athos was sucking his cock.

Porthos brings him closer towards that goal by guarding Athos’ hands, steady and sure. “Push him up, love – yeah, just like that. That’s good, we’re gonna make him feel so good …” He moves Athos forward inch by inch, until all Athos needs to do is push inside – and when Porthos puts his fingers around Athos’ cock, circles the base with thumb and forefinger, Athos throws his head back, a moan breaking out of him.

“You’ll wait for me to tell you, you hear, love?” Porthos growls next to his ear. “You won’t come until I say so, understood?”

“Yes,” Athos sobs, feeling trapped between Aramis and Porthos, and loving every second of it, “I’m yours – yours to command.”

“Yes, you are,” Porthos murmurs, and then he lines Athos up and pushes him forward and into Aramis, steady and slow, “you’re all ours.”

Aramis gasps when Athos breaches him, and his whole body arches off the bed and towards Athos. He looks beautiful, wanton and helpless, and Athos stares at him, lips parted.

“See how much he likes it?” Porthos comments from over his shoulder. “I bet he loves havin’ your cock inside – loves it when you fill him up.” His voice glides through Athos like warm honey, and then he pushes him deeper, slow enough to drive both Aramis and Athos mad with it, until Athos is all the way inside Aramis, clinging to Aramis’ hips, his fingers pressing into the hot skin.

Aramis is gasping for air, has both hands fisted into the bedding, and his eyes glitter with something Athos cannot quite recognize. “Porthos,” he moans, his voice shaken by tremors, “Porthos, you _fiend_.”

Porthos chuckles, and Athos can feel the vibrations of it in his own body. His lids droop, and he sighs, feels unbelievably safe between him and Aramis, free and floating.

“You good, love? Enjoyin’ yourself?” Porthos whispers next to his ear, sounding fond, and Athos sighs once more, and nods.

“Yes.”

“Wanna make Aramis feel even better?”

Athos nods again. “Yes. Yes, make me, please.”

Aramis whines and tightens around him, and claws his fingers deeper into the bedding.

“Come on then, move those hips of yours, love,” Porthos orders, “all nice and slow – make him feel you.” He straightens a little, puts his hands on Athos’ waist, gives him enough space to move without letting go.

Athos does as he is told, holds on to Aramis’ hips as he pushes into him, slow and careful, almost overwhelmed by the tight heat enveloping him.

“That’s it,” Porthos murmurs behind him, strokes his hands up and down Athos’ sides. “How does it feel, Aramis?”

All Aramis does is moan.

Behind him, Porthos starts to grin, Athos is certain of it. “That good, eh?”

“Yes,” Aramis whimpers, reaching out to Athos and grabbing his wrists, holding on to him as best he can, “feels so good.”

“Hear that, love?” Porthos whispers, “You’re doin’ wonderful. Now lean over him and put your hands on his chest, pinch his nipples – remember how he likes that?”

Aramis moans even before Athos moves to comply. He lets go of Athos’ wrists, lies perfectly still, allows Athos to take his hands off his hips and put them on his chest instead.

He seems to wait with bated breath for Athos to do as he is told, and once Athos does, once he puts his hands on Aramis’ chest, a shiver runs through Aramis’ body, and he tightens around Athos’ cock again, while his own twitches against his belly, dripping pre-come.

“Eh, look at that,” Porthos all but purrs. “How about some hair-pullin’ next?”

Aramis laughs then, sudden and delighted, breathless. “Oh God, Porthos, you’re ruining me – how am I supposed to recover from this?”

“Not at all, kitten,” Porthos tells him, simple and loving. “Not at all.”


	8. Chapter 8

Kneeling between Porthos and Aramis like this feels as though Athos has arrived somewhere he had no idea he was supposed to be until now. He feels complete, looking into Aramis’ eyes, with Porthos’ heat at his back, with Porthos gently guiding his movements.

Being inside Aramis is wonderful, gives Athos a strange sense of serenity, and he wants to make Aramis feel just as good, wants to make him feel loved and safe, just the way Athos is feeling right now.

“How do you want it, kitten?” Porthos murmurs behind him, rubs his hardening cock against Athos’ ass and makes him moan, “How do you want Athos to fuck you?”

Aramis’ eyes darken at the question, go heavy-lidded and liquid with desire, but he does not answer. He lies beneath Athos, his hands next to his head, passive, _submissive_ , cheeks flushed and lips parted, and it seems as though he simply does not _know_ the answer, does not have the words.

Porthos makes an interested noise at the discovery, and pushes Athos forward until he is all the way inside Aramis again, can hardly breathe with the need to let go and allow his body to claim him.

“Go on, love,” Porthos whispers behind him, “make him talk, eh? Make him use that pretty voice of his.”

Suddenly his right hand is on Athos’ neck, urging his head down, pushing at him until his mouth is on Aramis’ chest, and Athos’ lips part quite automatically. He licks over Aramis’ right nipple, hears him moan, half-choked and desperate, and does it again and again, moves his mouth from one nipple to the other, until they are both pink and hard, oversensitive beneath Athos’ lips.

Porthos keeps his hand on him, offers Athos a steady pressure on his neck, praises him for each moan he gets out of Aramis, for each whimper and each broken sob.

Athos starts to lose himself in what he is doing to Aramis, uses his teeth when Porthos tells him to, rakes his nails over Aramis’ skin, leaves scratches and bruises and bite marks all over his chest, all the while pushing into Aramis with sharp little twists of his hips.

It is bliss, a delicious torture for both of them, and Athos edges a little closer towards his release every time Aramis cries out his name.

“That’s it, love, you’re doin’ so good,” Porthos whispers, and he is fully hard again, rubs up against Athos from behind. Athos starts to shake apart between them, needs to come so bad he can taste it at the back of his throat.

It has never felt like this, not even when he was on his knees for Porthos. He feels like a vessel, waiting to be filled, although it is already overflowing.

Porthos’ hand on his neck is warm and strong, holding him, guiding his movements, allowing Athos to be weak, and making him stronger by doing so.

Aramis’ body seems to glow beneath him, welcomes every thrust greedily, and Athos cannot stop marking him, wants to cover him in scratches and bruises until Aramis has forgotten everyone else who ever touched him.

“Please,” Aramis whines at last, and it takes Athos far too long to realize that it was not himself who spoke, that it was not his voice that begged, “Porthos, please, let him come – let him –“

He gets so tight that it makes Athos gasp, makes his hips stutter and his breath lock inside his throat, and Porthos chuckles – chuckles behind him, leans forward and kisses the spot between Athos’ shoulder blades; he licks a hot stripe over the sweaty skin and rubs his thumb over the scar on Athos’ neck. “Alright, love, you heard him. Come for us.”

Aramis is so tight, is all tight and hot around him, and with Porthos behind him, with his cock rubbing over Athos’ hole it is impossible not to follow that order, not to give in and let go.

His release comes over him like a wave of warm water, slow at first, gradually drowning him in ecstasy. He clings to Aramis, holds on to him with everything he has, and part of Athos notices how Aramis moans his name, how he follows him over the edge, too helpless and exhausted not to.

They tremble against each other, drown in each other’s bliss, and Athos nearly loses his mind when Porthos curses behind him, when he hears the sound of skin slapping against skin, and then Porthos is coming too, coming all over Athos’ back and ass, marking him in turn.

Athos almost chokes on his moans, shivers violently, overwhelmed by the sensation. Aramis is the one to put his arms around him, is the one who holds him through it and whispers soothing nonsense to him, tired but caring, utterly loving.

Athos pushes into his embrace, hides his face against Aramis’ skin and tries to _breathe_ , tries to allow air into his lungs without thinking of the way Porthos’ release is cooling on his skin.

He still feels the ghost of Porthos’ touch on his neck, and he whimpers when Porthos touches him again, when he puts his hands on him and rubs them over his hips, up and down, gentle and comforting. “It’s alright, love, settle down. You did good for us – made Aramis feel so good.”

His voice and Aramis’ embrace feel like a balm to Athos, calm his body and his soul, and allow him to relax, find his way back to the serenity of submission. He sighs, rubs his cheek against Aramis’ chest, and closes his eyes. “Love you.”

“We love you, too,” Aramis whispers, strokes the sweaty hair out of Athos’ face with a gentle hand, “more than anything.”

They both whine when Porthos strengthens his hold on Athos and pulls him back, pulls him out of Aramis, careful and ever so slowly. He lowers Athos back into Aramis’ arms immediately afterwards, and then gets off the bed, bends over them to brush a kiss to each of their mouths before stepping away.

He tastes like honey, Athos thinks, and he is still licking his lips when Porthos returns with a wet cloth. He takes his time cleaning them both up, so very gentle, and rinses the cloth before he comes back to bed. Once settled he pulls them into his arms, one on either side of him, half on top of his body.

Athos feels half asleep by then, as though he is already dreaming even while still awake.

Aramis keeps caressing him, loving and sweet, keeps murmuring affectionate nonsense into his hair, sounding rather close to slumber himself. Athos cannot always tell whether he is making sense, but he hears the fondness in Aramis’ voice, and that is all that matters.

Porthos is quiet, lets Aramis talk and merely holds Athos, holds him close and safe, keeps him warm.

Athos floats like that for what feels like hours, content and happy. He keeps touching Aramis, keeps stroking his fingertips over his skin, over his chest and down his stomach, the curve of his knee, bent over Porthos’ thigh.

“He’s still gone, isn’t he?” Aramis whispers after a while, sounding intrigued, and Porthos releases a little huff, stirring the hair on top of Athos’ head.

“Miles away and closer than ever.” He brushes his hand over Athos’ back, strokes it down and down, over Athos’ ass, rubs his thumb over the spot directly above his cleft. “Did we make you that happy, love?”

“Yes,” Athos murmurs, simple and honest, and kisses his chest, “always so happy.”

Aramis makes a little noise, and Athos gazes at him across Porthos, unfocused and sleepy.

“You are so wonderful,” Aramis tells him, turns his head, and presses a kiss to Porthos’ shoulder, “as are you, my friend. You were … you were marvellous.”

“Thank you,” Porthos replies, and dimples at him, “I had a feelin’ you might like it.”

“I’m so grateful you allowed me to witness this,” Aramis whispers, “at least this once.”

“Don’t be daft,” Porthos murmurs, and Athos reaches out to Aramis on impulse, grabs his wrist, holds on to him.

“Always,” he says again, not quite so sleepy as before, “always, Aramis.”

“There,” Porthos grins, and he knows what Athos means, he always knows, even the things Athos does not say, “hear that? _Always_ , you fool.”

Aramis blinks a few times, his eyes suspiciously wet, and Athos links their fingers, keeps looking at him, honest and trusting.

“Why would we stop doin’ this with you when he’s never been this happy before?” Porthos asks – very reasonable in Athos’ opinion. “You’re not makin’ any sense, kitten.”

Aramis swallows, and licks his lips, takes a shaky breath, and tries to smile. “It’s just … I was a bit useless, wasn’t I?”

Porthos makes an impatient noise, and frowns at Aramis. “Useless? How were you useless? We all enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we? Tell him, love.”

“I liked the way you watched me,” Athos says promptly, his voice dreamy, “loved the way you felt around me, the way you … the way you said my name.” He squeezes Aramis’ hand, smiles at him, “You love me.”

Aramis’ eyes widen at the words, and he bites his lips and turns his face away from Athos’ gaze, hides it against Porthos’ chest as a violent tremor works its way through his body.

Athos makes a distressed noise and moves closer to him, assisted by Porthos, who pulls them both further atop himself, closer together. “He’s alright, love,” he whispers into Athos’ ear, kisses his cheek, “’S just you made him so happy by sayin’ what you did – he needs a moment to get a grip on that.”

Athos calms immediately, is no longer alarmed by the fact that Aramis appears to be crying. He strokes his fingers over Aramis’ hair, untangles the unruly strands, and brushes them behind the shell of Aramis’ ear.

“We need to cut it,” he murmurs absent-mindedly, “it’s gotten too long.”

Aramis lifts his head at the words, cranes his neck and kisses Athos with sudden fervour. “Don’t you ever leave me!” he pants, anguish in his voice.

“Of course not,” Athos replies, simple and true, and Aramis sobs into their kiss, releases Athos’ lips with a sigh.

Athos does not mention the tear-streaks on his cheeks, and neither does Porthos. Instead, Porthos chooses this moment to unearth the blankets from beneath their backs. Aramis promptly curses him, but his voice is too scratchy, and his words lack conviction. Athos and Porthos take him into their midst, hold him safe and warm between them, and watch him fall asleep.

Only when his breaths have turned regular and even, does Athos close his eyes, and fall asleep as well.

 

The fire is still burning when Athos wakes up again. It must be the middle of the night; he can see the stars high up in the heavens outside the window, can see wisps of clouds shrouding the moon.

There is frost on the window pane, and he is glad for the fire in the hearth – glad for the two men sharing his bed, sharing their warmth with him.

Aramis lies between him and Porthos, fast asleep it seems, clinging to Athos, his head resting on his shoulder, his back protected by Porthos – awake and looking at Athos through the flickering light.

Athos still feels half-afloat, feels safe, and he knows that Porthos did this – that he made it possible for Aramis to do his part as well. He knows that without Porthos, he would not be half as happy as he is.

Porthos smiles at him when he sees that Athos is awake, reaches out across Aramis and brushes the hair off Athos’ forehead. “Hello, love.”

Athos closes his eyes and turns his face into the touch, lets out a sigh. “Did I sleep long?”

“Just a few hours,” Porthos murmurs, and rubs his thumb over Athos’ temple, “our kitten is still dreaming, though.”

Athos opens his eyes to look at him, and he cannot help the smile tugging at his lips. “I do not wonder at that.”

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers, “he had an excitin’ day, didn’t he?” He shifts his gaze, studies Athos’ face, and lifts both brows in an expression of earnest concern. “And how are you recoverin’?”

Athos reaches up to take the hand still cupping his face, and entwines his fingers with Porthos’, tugs it down to rest above his heart. “I enjoyed everything you had me do,” he says, his voice not quite as smooth as he would like it to be, “and I feel much better than I did before.”

Porthos grins at him, not so much surprised, maybe – but glad, relieved. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Athos says, squeezing his hand, “you really are exceptionally good at … at taking care of –” he licks his lips, swallows, and looks into Porthos’ eyes, “… of me.”

Porthos’ brows rise even higher than before, and his whole expression changes, turns _younger_ , somehow, innocent and utterly carefree. His eyes look at Athos as though he was a gift bestowed onto him, something to cherish and to hold, and their warmth fills up the cage of Athos’ ribs and casts a net of gold around his heart.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Porthos says, and even his voice seems to cast a light on Athos, but maybe that is still the afterglow of their encounter, “for I couldn’t imagine doin’ anythin’ I enjoy more.”

Aramis sighs between them, turns his head and brushes his lips over Athos’ skin, and Porthos chuckles, leans over him and kisses his shoulder, teasing another sigh out of him. “You’re makin’ me happier than I’ve ever been before, love.” He bites his lip then, glances down at the sleeping Aramis once more, and rubs his thumb over the back of Athos’ hand. “You enjoyed havin’ him with us? You … you’re alright with me … pullin’ him in the way I did?”

“Yes,” Athos says, simple and true, “but I think we need to … give him … give him more instructions, before we do it again.”

Porthos smiles, contrite and impish at the same time, “Yeah. I might’ve … thrown him in a bit too deep all at once, eh?”

“Yes,” Athos says, smiling back at him, “but you did help him stay afloat at least.”

“I don’t know why he keeps bein’ so insecure about his place with us,” Porthos murmurs, pulls Athos’ hand to Aramis’ hip and lets go of it there, to brush his own through Aramis’ dark hair. “Does he think we’d do this with just anyone?”

“I have come to the conclusion that all his romances were even worse for him than I previously thought,” Athos replies, very softly, gazing down at Aramis’ face, carefree in sleep, making him look impossibly young. “He has been used too often.”

“Been left too often, too,” Porthos agrees, sounding sad about it. “He always builds these fiddly little palaces up in his mind, and doesn’t pay any attention to what they’re actually standin’ on.”

“He is on safe ground with us,” Athos reminds him – reminds them both, “I do not wish to see this palace crumble, nor do I want to see him suffer. He was so – he thought he had lost me, today. I do not want him to harbour that fear ever again.”

“Well, tellin’ him you love him might’ve helped,” Porthos murmurs, his eyes hiding little lights in their depths when he looks at Athos, “I think he … he really needed to hear that.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, feeling guilty once more that it took him so long, “he did.”

Porthos reaches out to him then, puts his hand on his neck and gives it a gentle squeeze, sends a pleasant tingling sensation through Athos. “Sleep, love,” he says, “we should talk about this when he’s awake, too.”

Athos smiles at him and obeys, because as far as he is concerned, obeying Porthos always has the most pleasant results.

 

It is light out, when he wakes once more, the sky almost clear, and Aramis is looking at him. They are lying face to face now, barely touching, and Porthos seems to be missing from the bed.

“He went out,” Aramis whispers when he sees Athos scanning the room for him, and a smile springs into his eyes, “he means to feed us again.”

“He is too good to us,” Athos whispers back, and then he moves forward and closer to Aramis, pulls him into his arms, and closes his eyes.

He still feels remnants of last night in the way Aramis’ body feels next to his, in the way Aramis looks at him – awed and full of wonder – and Athos’ mind is all too eager to bring back the memories, to reassure him that Aramis was nothing but enthralled by the way Athos bent to Porthos’ will.

He did not deem him weak, he found him … he found him _appealing_ , just like Porthos does, and Athos is glad that he allowed Aramis to see him like that, not only for Aramis’ sake, but for his own as well.

It heartens him that Aramis does not love him any less for it – that he does not respect him any less. At least not yet.

“I’m rather sure it’s more of a pretext this time,” Aramis murmurs, his breath tickling Athos’ neck and bringing his mind back into the present. “He was rather, ah, masterful again when he all but ordered me to stay in bed with you.” He clears his throat. “As if I would have left you.”

Athos’ eyes are open now, are staring at the opposite wall, and heat is trickling down his spine, despite the cold in the room. Porthos did not rekindle the fire ere he went out – all but trapping them in bed together.

It should not make Athos smile, but it does.

“It appears he believes there is need for conversation between us,” he gets out, and pulls his face back far enough so he can look into Aramis’ eyes.

Aramis promptly evades his gaze, and stares down at Athos’ chest, conjures up a pale little smile. “And why would he believe that, my dear Athos?”

“Because we talked to each other last night, after you had fallen asleep,” Athos replies softly, honest as ever. He thinks he might have made a mistake, phrasing it like that. It sounds too much like they are having secrets behind Aramis’ back – like they are discussing him without his knowledge.

Blood rises to Aramis’ cheeks, and he bites his bottom lip, still staring at the blanket hiding Athos’ body from the cold rather than looking at Athos’ face – giving Athos’ fear more ground to take root in.

It seems he did indeed say the wrong thing, did give Aramis a new reason to doubt his place with him and Porthos, and Athos opens his mouth to speak, intent on making it right.

“It is just –“ he stops and collects his thoughts, takes a steadying breath of air. “It was the first time you saw me like that,” he says as calmly as possible, “and Porthos and I were both … we were both glad that you seemed to enjoy it so much.”

“I did,” Aramis murmurs, and briefly looks up into Athos’ eyes before he stares at his chest again, “I enjoyed it very much.”

He flushes even deeper saying the words, and Athos remembers all too clearly how Aramis thanked them afterwards, how he thanked them for including him _at least this once_ , and his heart aches at the memory. “What you said last night –” he starts, tentative but determined to see this through, to make Aramis understand, to make him _believe_ , “… you still seem to think that Porthos and I are merely _allowing_ you to take part in this relationship, and I want you to know that –“

“I know,” Aramis interrupts him, a little too hasty, his smile looking strained. “I do know, Athos.”

“Let me say it all the same,” Athos perseveres, not surprised at all at the interruption. Aramis’ tendency to smile and deflect is nothing new to him, nor does it annoy him in any way.

Athos is rather surprised that he himself has not tried to run away yet.

“Porthos and I … we were happy before you joined us,” he says slowly, and it is difficult to not shy away from continuing when he perceives hurt settling into Aramis’ eyes, “and the fact of the matter is that we _needed_ to be.”

Aramis blinks at that, surprised and unsure where Athos is going with this, and Athos huffs and manages a little drawl. “Do you believe the three of us could succeed in this endeavour if it was otherwise? Do you think we could … function if Porthos and I were not bound to each other as tightly as we are?”

The silence following his words speaks very loudly indeed, and after a while Aramis lowers his gaze and stares down at Athos’ chest once more. “I could try and –“

“Yes,” Athos interrupts him gently. “You could try and do your best to keep us all together, could work and strive and labour for it until you were nothing but a shell, exhausted and empty.” Athos lifts one hand out of the blanket and smoothes the hair out of Aramis’ face. “Why does it make you so afraid that Porthos and I love one another? It does not make us love you any less.”

“But you don’t _need_ me,” Aramis whispers, finally saying out loud what seems to have lived like a shadow on his heart and soul ever since he joined them, “You could do without me easily enough – you already have.”

He looks at Athos, and it seems that he is sorry for saying the words as soon as they leave his mouth, that he would rather have kept them secret.

Athos gazes back at him, serious while he contemplates his answer, and finally nods. “You are correct. I could.”

Aramis flinches, pales and averts his gaze to hide his pain, and Athos speaks on. “I could be alone. I could be without you, without Porthos, could live my life like I did for the last five years, not allowing anyone to touch me. I could. I did it long enough.”

He puts his hand on Aramis’ cheek and gently turns his head, makes him look at him. “I don’t want that, Aramis.” He smiles a little. “And neither does Porthos, I suppose.”

He feels a little lighter, when Aramis offers him a smile in return, and he clears his throat. “You need to understand that our … our experiences are really quite different, my friend. I would not … I _could_ not have taken you into my bed out of a mere infatuation, nor would I have done it out of pity. You know that I am not … that I am not free with my affections. What I did, I did out of love. I am with you because I want you. I could live without you, yes, but I would not call that living – it would be mere survival.”

He sees Aramis’ eyes fill with tears, just like they did last night, and then Aramis takes a shaky breath, bites his lower lip and lets out a mortified huff. “I swear I do not usually cry this much.”

“Well,” Athos says, and lifts both hands to Aramis’ cheeks, wipes away his tears, “I do not usually talk this much. You can blame it all on me, if you like.”

Aramis laughs then, and nods, and leans in for a grateful kiss. “I am. I am blaming you.”

Their kiss is brief, but sweet, and when they pull back, they smile at one another.

Aramis’ eyes are still wet, and he does not try to hide his tears from Athos. Instead he rests his head on Athos’ chest, and looks up to him, surprisingly open, not trying to conceal anything.

He sighs, lifts his hand out of the blanket and lets his fingertips brush up to Athos’ neck, watches their progress over Athos’ skin, finds the little scar next to his pulse. “You were so beautiful,” he muses, and then he bites his lip, looks up at Athos’ face again. “Would you rather I do not talk about it?”

The question lures a smile out of Athos, touched and gratified. “I am getting used to it, it seems – to your flattery as well as Porthos’.”

“Flattery?” Aramis echoes, and his eyes narrow. “Do you think us insincere?”

“I find it hard to believe that the display of my … decrepitude can be all that appealing,” Athos drawls, and Aramis blinks his lashes at him, seemingly confused.

Then something in his gaze shifts, and his eyes clear, become focussed and sharp – as though Athos was his mark rather than a lover he is sharing his bed with. “Did you ever call it that in front of Porthos?” he asks, his voice just as sharp as his eyes, and this time Athos is the one to look away, immensely aware of the fact that Porthos would have ample reason to be rather annoyed with him right now.

“He is aware of my thoughts on the matter, yes.”

“And he never _said_ anything to turn them around?” Aramis exclaims, sounding amazed as much as incensed.

Athos clears his throat at that, rather carefully, and Aramis tilts his head to the side, regarding him.

Once he understands the meaning behind Athos’ careful silence – that Porthos did indeed say something to give Athos’ thoughts a better direction, that Athos does in fact no longer condemn himself quite so harshly – Aramis smiles. “You’re too stubborn by half,” he whispers, fond if a bit exasperated. “You’re really lucky that you are so very, _very_ beautiful.” He kisses Athos’ chin of all places to emphasise his point, and Athos closes his eyes, and relaxes into the sensation.

Aramis’ throat produces a pleased noise at the discovery, and then he moves on top of Athos, holds his head between his palms and covers his face in kisses. “You were so very wonderful last night,” he murmurs at last, his mouth right next to Athos’ ear. “I do not think I have ever felt with anyone the way I felt with you and Porthos.”

Athos turns his head to kiss his cheek. “No?”

“No,” Aramis whispers. “I was … I was almost afraid at first. I was never so nervous to do something wrong … I hardly knew how to touch you.”

“Porthos and I already agreed that we need to do better in regards to that,” Athos tells him. “Next time we will be better to you, I promise.”

“Better to me,” Aramis echoes, the picture of bemused bashfulness, “… but it shouldn’t be about me.”

“It should not make you nervous either,” Athos insists. “That is – if you wish to … participate again.”

“Of course I wish that,” Aramis says, overwhelmingly earnest, “I just wonder at you two that you’d let me in the first place.”

Athos puts his arms around Aramis and rolls them around, gazes down at him with a serious expression. “I was afraid to show you,” he admits, “but I am not anymore.” He swallows, stares down into Aramis’ eyes while his pulse quickens and his heart seems to grow in size. “You … you made me feel safe, Aramis. I did … I did not feel any shame while you were watching me, and I … I am too grateful for that to even contemplate hiding myself away from you again.”

Aramis lies beneath him, and his breathing goes just as fast as Athos’ does. Athos watches his cheeks flush, watches him moisten his lips, and a trembling smile take possession of his face. “I keep trying to find the words to tell you how you make me feel,” he finally whispers, “but all I keep ending up with is ‘I love you’.”

Athos kisses him then, kisses him with his eyes closed and his heart wide open, because he does not know what to say either.

Words may keep spilling over his lips, one right after the other, but it does not ever feel as though it is _enough_ ; they remain _words_ , circle the true nature of his emotions like carrion birds … feast on his heart, and leave his bones exposed.

Aramis sighs into their kiss, sweet and responsive, buries his hands in Athos’ hair and arches into his body.

They do not lose control, this time.

They kiss slowly and languidly, explore each other’s mouths like one might explore a church, cautious and reverent.

Although it does not burn him, Athos still loses himself to the kiss – does not even notice how the door opens and Porthos returns to them.

He must walk up to the bed very softly, too, and if it was anyone else Athos would be startled by the sudden sound of his voice. “Havin’ fun?”

They pull apart with a little gasp, and Porthos chuckles, leans over to get a kiss from either of them. “Mh, I missed you,” he murmurs when he straightens to get rid of his hat, “all nice and warm.”

For a moment neither Aramis nor Athos moves, but merely look up at him, at the way his smile lights up his eyes, softens the curve of his lips. Then they move as one, emerge from beneath the blankets and get out of bed, advance on him with single-minded purpose. They rid Porthos first of the food he brought, store it away on the windowsill, and continue to divest him of his hat, his gloves, his jacket.

He allows them to pull him this way and that, patient and amused, and when he finally speaks, his voice sounds warm – as warm as the skin beneath his shirt, always so wonderful to touch, as Athos is finding out yet again. “I don’t think we have time for this, my friends.”

“We are staying in today,” Athos informs him, his hands still on Porthos’ chest, “d’Artagnan can come and get us should the need arise.”

“Ah, I like that,” Aramis exclaims, embracing Porthos from behind, pushing his face into the fabric of his shirt, “Come back to bed, _dearest Porthos_ , warm us up properly.”

Porthos chuckles and does not voice any protest when they rid him of his trousers and boots and pull him into bed with them. He lets them nestle into him, curls his arms around them and holds them close, and lets out a mighty sigh. “’S so nice, comin’ back to this.”

“You shouldn’t have left in the first place,” Aramis tells him, takes a peek at Athos across Porthos’ chest. “Athos _talked_ again.”

“You don’t say,” Porthos replies, feigning surprise, “no wonder you’re both glowin’ with it.” He lowers his head, kisses the tip of Aramis’ nose. “Did he tell you that he loves you again?”

Aramis lifts his face up to him for a kiss, and when he answers, he does so in a whisper, soft and happy, “Yes, and much more besides.”

Porthos makes a pleased noise and turns his head, levels a smile at Athos. “You could’ve waited for me, you know?”

“I know,” Athos replies, “but I do not think I did any harm.”

“He made me cry,” Aramis complains promptly, “again!”

Athos feels almost inclined to join in when Porthos starts laughing, and his heart jumps up into his throat when Porthos takes Aramis’ face between his hands and rubs his thumbs back and forth beneath his eyes, just like Athos did himself. “You look quite happy to me, kitten.”

Aramis all but purrs at him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t.”


	9. Chapter 9

At his request Aramis and Athos tell Porthos what they discussed in his absence. They lie in bed, with Porthos in the middle, clad in his shirt and smallclothes, while Aramis and Athos are completely naked, framing him on either side.

Aramis delivers a full report with his head on Porthos’ shoulder, leaving nothing out, and Athos receives a reproachful glare from two pairs of eyes when the word _decrepitude_ falls, even though Porthos has to contort his neck quite a lot to establish eye contact.

“For a moment I thought you hadn’t _told_ him,” Aramis confesses, sounding contrite while looking everything but, “and I am so very sorry I doubted you, my dear Porthos.”

Both their eyes are still on Athos, no longer glaring, but expectant instead – as if they are waiting for him to say something, as if they expect him to call himself beautiful.

As if he could.

As if he _was_.

“Stubborn bastard,” Porthos says, when Athos keeps silent – patient as ever and immensely fond. “Beautiful, stubborn bastard.” He kisses Athos’ forehead and speaks with his lips still close to Athos’ skin. “You know what that means, don’t you, kitten? You know what we have to do?”

“Please don’t,” Athos murmurs, half-heartedly, with his eyes half-closed.

He is generously ignored.

Not that he expected anything else. Sometimes Aramis and Porthos are really quite useless at following his commands.

“We have to convince him the same way we convinced him to keep us around,” Aramis says, sounding far too pleased with himself.

“By being a mulish menace?” Athos asks him, “Always underfoot where I want you least?”

He remembers those first days, when Aramis smiled too brightly for his taste, and Porthos’ touch felt too rough on his shoulder. Athos cannot even pinpoint the moment when it changed, when he began to return some of those smiles and learned to lean into that strong hand – when he learned to trust both, and began depending on it.

“Just that,” Aramis agrees, and winks at him. “ _Relentless_ in showing you our affection.”

“Even more than you already are?” Athos drawls. “I am not sure I can come through that experience with my wits intact – not to mention my heart.”

Aramis’ eyes turn soft at that, and his whole expression changes into one of pure fondness.

“Hush, love,” Porthos chuckles, “you’ll make our kitten cry again.”

He brushes a kiss to Athos’ lips, and then looks into his eyes, studies him intently.

Athos waits for him to speak with something akin to eagerness – not quite nervous, but excited.

“You’re very gracious this mornin’ aren’t you, love?” Porthos says eventually, his voice calm and content, and Athos cannot help the flush spreading over his cheeks in response to the question.

He carefully clears his throat before he answers, “You know very well that you did this.”

“Oh I did – did I?” Porthos teases, and takes a peek at Aramis out of the corner of his eye. Then his expression changes, turns entirely too sincere. “Wanna tell Aramis what I did so he can do the same next time you feel generous and let us take care of you?”

Athos appreciates the careful way Porthos phrases the question, appreciates that he asks at all, and does not merely tell Aramis when he is alone with him.

This way Athos can be there, can look into Aramis’ eyes and make him see how much he cherishes him.

Because Aramis is looking insecure yet again, is gnawing on his lower lip and staring at an apparently immensely fascinating scar high on Porthos’ chest.

“Yes,” Athos says quietly, reaches out his hand and puts it beneath Aramis’ chin, lifts it very gently, “I want that.”

Aramis stares at him like a startled deer. “But – but you …”

Athos finds him terribly endearing, can barely contain the sudden urge to pull him into his arms and take the physical approach to showing him how much he loves him.

Aramis must see it in his expression, for he blushes, but he holds Athos’ gaze, even when Athos asks, “But I what, Aramis?”

“You’re not usually like this,” Aramis murmurs in a rough voice, and clears his throat. “You … you don’t usually share, I mean.”

“I am making an exception for you,” Athos tells him with a slight drawl, his hand still under Aramis’ chin.

“Yeah,” Porthos contributes, “he’s makin’ quite a few for you recently, isn’t he.”

Athos tells him very fondly to shut up.

Porthos laughs and kisses him, and when he has settled down, Aramis looks comfortable again, and less likely to flee the bed. “So what …” he hesitates for a moment, licks his lips, and marches on, “what do I do to – how do I –“ He frowns and levels a surprisingly direct gaze at Athos. “What shouldn’t I do? I mean – I remember that you did not like to be hurt by … by _her_ , but apart from that –“

Athos swallows heavily, thrown off balance by the mention of her and what she did to him.

He looks at Porthos – out of habit, maybe, or quite possibly searching for help. For even though Porthos does not see himself as Athos’ master, does not regard Athos as his dog, he still is the one in control, making all the decisions when Athos is too far gone to do so.

He is the one putting the collar on Athos, the one holding the leash.

Athos cannot be sure how much of this conviction is visible on his face – how well Porthos is able to read his mind – but when Porthos clears his throat and speaks it does not matter.

“Well. It’s … eh … I found that he really likes a firm but gentle hand, so to speak.” He does not even blush saying it – the way Athos does hearing the words – but he keeps looking at Athos while he speaks, keeps looking into his eyes. “Make sure he’s comfortable, basically. Ask him what he likes, what he wants. Make sure he knows how to stop what’s happenin’ if he finds he doesn’t like it after all.”

Aramis drinks it all in, eyes eager, cheeks just as flushed as Athos’, and when he bites his lip this time, it does not seem to be out of discomfort. “Has that ever happened?”

“No,” Athos says, and he does not wonder at the break in his voice, at the way it curls around his tongue and makes it sound like a confession, “he has always been good to me.”

Aramis’ smile dawns sudden and bright. “That I can very well imagine.”

Porthos’ mouth pulls into a proud smile, and he leans in for a kiss. “Well, I’m tryin’.” He immediately looks at Athos again, once the kiss ends, silently asking for permission to go on – brows raised and eyes opened wide.

Athos smiles at him as much as his shaken balance lets him, and Porthos clears his throat again. “He doesn’t like to be the only one who’s naked, but he really enjoys a hand on his neck. He, eh, seems to enjoy that more than anythin’ really.”

A burning heat rises into Athos’ cheeks, but he does not dispute the fact. When he looks at Aramis, his friend gazes back at him, a light flickering in his eyes that Athos cannot quite place.

“So you … you enjoy being told what to do?” Aramis asks, sounding almost shy, and Athos nods, once, very slowly, and he can feel the truth creeping up his throat, and does not try to stop it.

“… Yes, I do. Very much indeed. I enjoy –“ he pauses, takes a steadying breath, “I enjoy being used, being … being _of use_.”

Never before has Athos said the words out loud, not even to Porthos, and for a long moment it feels as though his heart might beat right out of his chest in result.

But Aramis looks so amazed, looks at him with something far too close to worship, and Athos cannot feel too much shame about his confession. “I … I loved it when Porthos made me leave marks on you last night,” he says, not meaning to make his voice sound quite so raspy, but unable to do anything about it. His eyes drop down to Aramis’ torso, covered in scratches and bite-marks, and he flushes. “Did you enjoy that, too?”

Aramis makes a little noise in the back of his throat at that, and he does not say anything in return. Instead, Porthos huffs, and brushes a kiss to Athos’ forehead, “You’re bein’ a tease again, love.”

Athos closes his eyes and turns his face towards him, and murmurs, “You made me” against Porthos’ mouth, licks over his lips just like he did last night, submissive and needy.

Porthos kisses him back, soft and giving, lifts his hand to Athos’ head and cradles it in his palm. Peace settles into Athos’ blood while they kiss, a bone-deep serenity that spreads out into his whole body, makes him as happy and content as he was last night.

He whines when Porthos takes his mouth away, but then Aramis is there, Aramis is kissing him, so gentle, gives Athos his lips and his tongue and licks each helpless moan right off Athos’ mouth.

Aramis tastes different, this time, just as sweet, but stronger, somehow – he takes control of Athos’ mouth and makes him open up wider, makes him moan louder, takes all the worry away and replaces it with mindless bliss.

Athos is breathing a little harder when they pull apart, and when he opens his eyes, Aramis is looking at him with what could be called nervous expectation. “Was that alright?”

“Yes,” Athos says, stunned, “that was … that was very good.”

Aramis looks rather smug suddenly, and Porthos shakes his head at the both of them, gives Aramis’ hair an affectionate tousle. “Will you stop teasin’ each other.”

“No,” Aramis says, and the smug look on his face only intensifies, “I don’t think so. I rather enjoy it.”

Athos does not know whether he wants to shove him out of the bed or kiss him again. He has waited so long for this to happen – for Aramis to feel comfortable enough with them to be like this.

A knock on the door solves the problem for him, makes them all exchange slightly worried looks, but then d’Artagnan’s voice comes through the sturdy wood, muffled and somewhat desperate. “Are you in there? Please tell me you aren’t at Athos’ …”

Porthos grunts then, amused, and being the only one even remotely dressed, he gets out of bed and opens the door to a slightly downtrodden looking d’Artagnan. “Aren’t you a ray of mornin’ sunshine.”

He pulls him inside and closes the door, and d’Artagnan flushes to the roots of his hair when he finds Aramis and Athos in bed together, very obviously naked.

“What is it?” Athos asks, doing his very best to present an unfazed demeanour, “Has something happened?”

For a moment all the boy does is stare at him, until Aramis clears his throat. “I am nearly certain you have seen a naked man before.”

He sounds suspiciously close to jealousy yet again, and Athos shares an amused glance with Porthos, who is grinning all over his face, and giving d’Artagnan a friendly shake. “You want them to put some clothes on?”

“N-no,” d’Artagnan finally stammers out, “the Captain merely asked me to inform you that Duvall has been taken into custody, and that his business is going to Michel – the King has already ordered him to make a new headdress for the Queen … as soon as he feels up to it.”

“Marvellous news,” Aramis exclaims, his tone somewhere between genuine satisfaction and sarcasm, “was that all?”

“You know what,” Porthos says to d’Artagnan, exchanging yet another look with Athos, “you’re stayin’ for breakfast.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widen in alarm, and Athos, feeling sorry for him, clears his throat, “Only if you want to.”

Porthos huffs. “Of course he wants to. I’m gonna light a fire, get us all comfortable, yeah?”

The look he directs at d’Artagnan is altogether too hopeful and earnest for a refusal, and Athos finds that it is indeed possible to fall a little more in love with someone who already owns all of your heart.

“In that case,” Aramis sighs in a resigned voice (obviously just as defenceless in the face of that look as everyone else), “we really should get dressed.”

He sheds his blankets and gets up without further warning, and d’Artagnan turns and faces the opposite wall rather abruptly.

Then Aramis stands beside the bed, naked, and announces that he did not think this through.

“Cold, are you?” Porthos asks him over his shoulder, a devious little grin in his voice. He is already kneeling in front of the hearth, and Aramis makes a confirmative noise at him that reminds Athos of a bird that has fallen out of its nest.

He gets up as well, hands Aramis his smallclothes before he slips on his own shirt and undergarments, and then pushes Aramis back onto the bed, drapes a blanket around his shoulders, and walks over to the hearth to assist Porthos in making a fire.

“You can turn back around,” he tells d’Artagnan while kneeling down, and Porthos greets him with a friendly jab of his elbow.

“I can do this alone, you know,” he whispers, “go and warm Aramis up, the Whelp can take it.”

Athos hesitates, but in the end he does get back up and walk over to the bed to sit down beside Aramis, who welcomes him with a wide-eyed stare of amazement, closely followed by elated enthusiasm.

For a moment d’Artagnan seems to be somewhat flustered by this development, but then he calms, takes off his gloves, and settles down on the one chair in the room.

Athos has no words that could fully cover his gratitude for the boy’s treatment of them. Many other men, no matter how understanding, would shrink from witnessing what they have no desire to experience themselves.

D’Artagnan does not only appear comfortable with their displays of affection, but welcoming of them once he has shaken his first embarrassment of being privy to such a private scene.

“The Captain was a little worried when none of you came in,” he tells them with a little grin, “but I assured him that nothing ill had befallen you.”

“Thank you for that,” Aramis says, burrowing into Athos without even a hint of shame, either searching for warmth or trying to fluster the boy yet again, or – quite possibly – both at once. “It seems we were far too zealous recently. He didn’t use to worry quite so fast.”

“Because Athos always reported for all three of us,” Porthos grunts from his place on the floor. He gets up once the wood in the hearth catches fire, straightens and walks over to the window-sill, inspects the food he brought earlier. “I expect he was not so much worried about _us_ as he was worried about _him_ not showin’ up.”

He looks at Athos over his shoulder, and directs a wink at him. “I’ll tell ‘im Aramis corrupted you, eh?”

“Please do not,” Athos drawls. “For one because I do not at all wish for you to implant that idea in his mind, and then because it is not true at all – Aramis did not corrupt me.”

There is a beat of silence, and then Athos adds, “You did.”

D’Artagnan grins openly at Porthos’ attempt at an innocent expression. “Me? I wasn’t even there when you decided to stay in today!”

He divides the food evenly between the four of them and sits down on the floor, his back to the wall, his legs crossed in front of him. Aramis and Athos regard him in silence for a moment, and then they move to the floor as well, bring the blankets with them and make him comfortable.

D’Artagnan watches the proceedings with a fond little smile, and leaves his chair, puts it to the side and joins them.

“It appears that I need to get more furniture,” Aramis comments once they are all seated more or less comfortably, “this is far from ideal.”

“Could be worse,” Porthos states tranquilly, and starts in on his food with noticeable appetite, “at least we’re dry and warm.”

Athos barely refrains from handing him his portion, if only because he knows Porthos would never accept it. Seeing Porthos now, sitting on the floor in his linen with his back to the cold wall, Athos can almost imagine the boy he once was, always hungry, without family or security.

As formidable as Porthos has grown up to be, Athos still experiences an urge to shield and protect him, to give him now what Porthos’ childhood did not grant him, even if it comes years too late.

Aramis must be victim to a similar desire, for he moves closer to Porthos, until their bodies touch from shoulder to hip – and even d’Artagnan looks oddly out of his depth all of a sudden.

At first Porthos does not seem to notice the shift in atmosphere his words have caused, but then he lifts his head, looks at each of them in turn, and frowns. “What’re you all so gloomy for?”

Neither of them gives an answer, and puzzlement takes over his features. Athos can see how he goes over the conversation, repeats what was said in his head – and grimaces. “Really? We’re all together, warm and comfortable and _whole_ for the first time in what appears to be _years_ , and the lot of you get all –“ he throws his hand out and gestures at them with a piece of bread, “this for somethin’ that doesn’t even matter anymore?”

“Allow us to be excessively fond of you, and leave it at that if you please,” Aramis says, jostling him with his shoulder. “You can hardly blame us for that.”

“I can blame you for anythin’ I like,” Porthos says, just like he did on the morning before, but this time he turns his head and drops a kiss on Aramis’ hair, “but I’ll let you get away with this one.”

Aramis looks entirely too pleased with this public display of Porthos’ affection, and Athos smiles at the two of them before he looks at d’Artagnan from the corner of his eye.

The boy seems unaffected if a bit melancholy. Athos remembers his lost love and feels for him, wishes he could help him in some way.

It does not seem right to Athos that d’Artagnan must suffer from heartache while he himself is so very happy. The boy deserves his share of it as much as anyone, and certainly more than most. … Certainly more than Athos himself.

Porthos and Aramis distract him from these thoughts, the way they always do so well, simply by being themselves.

Porthos has lifted his arm to put it around Aramis’ shoulders, and it seems that he has encountered a problem in the execution of this idea, mainly in the form of Aramis’ hair and the way it hangs too far down over Aramis’ neck to allow for comfort.

“It really has gotten too long,” Athos comments with a smile, and watches Aramis pull it back and up so Porthos can curl his arm around him, “you will need to tie it back soon.”

“I’d rather get it cut,” Aramis replies, while he shamelessly burrows into Porthos and his warmth.

D’Artagnan watches them with a fond little smile, and tilts his head. “Do you want us to do it for you? It can’t be all that difficult, can it?”

“Oh, it _can_ ,” Aramis says with a slight wince. His gaze lands on Athos, and he regards him for a moment. “But our Athos has quite steady hands, doesn’t he? His needle-work is almost as good as mine.” He winks at d’Artagnan, “Not quite as hot-headed as you, either – more of a thinker, our Athos.”

“I don’t quite see what that has to do with anything, but by all means – let Athos cut your hair,” d’Artagnan says good-naturedly, albeit with a small pout. “I wouldn’t want to disfigure you.”

“And I thank you for it,” Aramis replies with one of his most charming smiles. It is still on his face when he looks at Athos again, but it loses some of its self-assuredness, turns quite hesitant beneath its outward brilliance. “Athos?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Athos offers with a slight tilt of his head. “I always enjoy wielding sharp instruments close to your person.”

Porthos chuckles and brushes another kiss to Aramis’ forehead. “And you barely had to ask for it.” He grins at d’Artagnan. “You can cut my hair, if you want to.”

The boy laughs and shakes his head, and Athos can see on Aramis’ face how he barely manages to refrain from claiming ownership of that privilege. He looks in fact precariously close to climbing into Porthos’ lap and hissing at poor d’Artagnan.

For someone who generally is so very free with his affection, Aramis is really quite the possessive lover.

The discovery amuses Athos as much as it warms him – but it saddens him, too.

Aramis really seems to have no experience at all with this – with sharing someone he loves, with being close to them without touching and holding on to them at all times … being certain of their affection without constant reassurance.

Luckily, Porthos is all too ready to offer it, is always ready to touch and smile and give Aramis all the love and reassurance he needs.

Athos cannot do that, at least not yet. What he _can_ do is cut Aramis’ hair for him though.

They finish their breakfast, and d’Artagnan leaves them, claiming he promised the Captain to return to the garrison as soon as he made sure the three of them were still alive.

Athos lets him go with a silent promise to himself to be a better mentor to the boy in the future – to distract him from his heartache as best he can, and make a great musketeer out of him along the way.

He would never forgive himself if all that potential would go to waste – but even more importantly, he could not forgive himself if he failed in his duties as a friend.

“He’s sad, isn’t he,” Porthos comments after he has closed the door behind d’Artagnan, just as aware of what is going on as Athos, if not more. “Because of Constance.”

“It’s time we found him a new love,” Aramis says, folding one of his many blankets, and ceases all movement when he becomes aware of both Athos and Porthos looking at him. “Or … not?”

Porthos huffs and Athos smiles, and they both shake their head at him, fond.

“I do not think he wants one,” Athos says in a careful tone of voice.

“Constance never mentions him either,” Porthos supplies thoughtfully. “I think she still loves him.”

Aramis pouts at them. “I know that! I was talking about a distraction – not a wife!”

“Yeah, well, don’t do that,” Porthos says reasonably. “We’ll find some other way to distract him – without hurtin’ Constance.”

Aramis’ eyes widen and he bites his lip. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I know,” Porthos smiles, “that’s why I’m tellin’ you.” He moves through the room to stand in front of Aramis, takes the blanket from his unresisting hands and puts it to the side – takes Aramis’ hands into his own. “We’ll think of somethin’.”

Aramis sighs and embraces him, closes his eyes. “I liked your plan where we simply whack Bonacieux over the head and put him on a ship to Spain.”

Athos, perceiving the pleased and altogether too hopeful expression on Porthos’ face, clears his throat. “No.”

Aramis promptly pouts at him, “Ah, but Athos –”

“Really, Aramis, no.”

Aramis pouts a little more, and sighs. “Oh well, we’ll have to think of something else then.”

Porthos smiles into his hair and lifts his hand, brushes his fingers to the tangled mess. “You want Athos to cut this in the meantime?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, his voice somewhere between decisive and dreamy. “I want that.”

Porthos rubs a strand of hair between his fingers and turns his head to look at Athos. “You’ve done this before?”

“Yes,” Athos admits, “on myself, even.”

Aramis glares at him, and the left corner of Athos’ mouth wanders a fraction higher. “It was before I knew you and your capable hands.”

The compliment makes Aramis flush, just a little, and Athos indicates the chair d’Artagnan put conveniently close to the window earlier. “Shall we then?”

Aramis promptly extracts himself from Porthos’ arms and steps over to where he keeps his kit with needles, thread, and a pair of scissors. He smiles when he hands them to Athos, almost carefree, “Be gentle, yes?”

“Always,” Athos drawls, and puts his hand on Aramis’ shoulder to push him towards the chair.

Aramis goes down without a fight, takes off his shirt so it does not collect the cut hairs, and Athos moves behind him, eyes the tangled mess he’s presented with. “Maybe we should brush this first.”

Porthos produces the necessary instrument for him, and Aramis sighs when Athos lifts the brush to his hair, keeps perfectly still even while Athos works on the more stubborn knots.

“Enjoyin’ yourself, kitten?” Porthos speaks up after a while, and Athos’ eyes stray from his task and over to where Porthos is lounging on the bed, his gaze fixed on Aramis.

To call Porthos’ grin wicked would be an understatement of grand proportions, and Athos lifts one brow, and halts the movement of his hands. “Aramis, am I hurting you?”

Porthos chuckles, and Aramis makes a tiny noise, like a breath of air that was trapped inside one’s chest for too long. “Ah, no – no, I wouldn’t call it that.”

Athos’ brow climbs a little higher on his forehead, and he resumes brushing Aramis’ hair – pays special attention to the regularity of Aramis’ breathing, to the way he seems to breathe just a little too hard.

Athos smirks and exchanges a look with Porthos, whose grin is still everything but innocent. “I am almost done,” he announces in a smooth voice, untangling the last knot, gentle and careful, but not without pulling on Aramis’ hair, not without upsetting his breathing and teasing a moan out of him. “… Do you need a moment, Aramis?”

Aramis pushes his head back then, pushes it back against Athos’ stomach and looks up at him – his eyes liquid with pleasure, a glowing smile on his face. “I had no idea this would feel so good, my dearest friend.”

He sounds so content, saying the words, looks up at Athos with such a fond expression that Athos puts away the brush for a moment and uses his fingers instead, brushes them through Aramis’ soft, wavy hair, teases another moan out of him.

Aramis pushes into his touch, closes his eyes and relaxes, and Porthos softly clears his throat, makes Athos look over at him once more. “Want me to help you with that, kitten?”

Blood rises into Athos cheeks at the offer – and even more so at the memory of when he heard it first in quite a similar context.

It seems so long ago since Porthos brought him home that night, when he first took care of Athos like a lover.

Aramis shivers at the question, pushes his head back into Athos’ body and takes a deep breath. “It feels so good.”

“I won’t stop,” Athos promises him; he has no idea where the words come from, and his fingers seem to twist themselves into Aramis’ hair of their own accord.

Porthos gets up then, in one smooth motion, crosses the distance between the bed and the chair and goes down on his knees in front of Aramis.

Athos watches him intently, and it feels curious to look at him and know what Aramis is feeling right now – to know that fluttering sensation inside Aramis’ chest as though it was his own.

Athos is aroused, but it does not feel the same as it usually does. He feels more in control of his body, feels _calmer_ somehow. His eyes meet Porthos’ and they smile at one another, while Porthos puts his hands on Aramis’ knees, and gently spreads his legs.

Aramis makes a pleased noise and gives in to him, pushes his hips up and his head into Athos’ hands – gives himself up so completely that it sends a warm shiver down Athos’ back.

“You like Athos brushin’ your hair, eh kitten?” Porthos says in a low voice, more like he is stating a fact than asking a question, and Athos steps closer to the chair, lets Aramis’ head rest against his stomach.

The room is warm, and the feeling of Aramis against his body immensely pleasant. It must be the illusion of keeping him safe, Athos thinks, the idea of providing safety and comfort to Aramis while Porthos provides something else entirely.

Athos watches as Porthos unlaces Aramis’ undergarments, watches his big, gentle hands at work on the fabric, and twists his fingers deeper into Aramis’ hair, makes him moan again.

“You are both so good to me,” Aramis whispers, his voice barely raised above a sigh.

“How could we be anything else?” Athos asks, and Porthos rewards him with a loving grin and a wink, and bends over Aramis’ lap, swallows him down.

Aramis makes a helpless noise and twitches back against Athos, pushes up into Porthos’ mouth, and they grab him a little more firmly, keep him still between them.

“Oh,” Aramis whispers, his voice breathy and soft, and he sounds so _surprised_ , cannot hide the shivers running through his body, “oh – oh, this is … Athos, Athos, I can’t –“ He gasps and strains against the hands holding him down, just a little – just enough to feel Athos’ grip in his hair, Porthos’ grip on his hips. “I can’t – Porthos, I can’t –“

His arms hang by his sides, powerless, useless, and Athos drags his fingers through Aramis hair, gentle, yes, but with sufficient force to let Aramis feel it. “What is it, Aramis? You want us to stop?”

“No!” Aramis gasps, “no, don’t stop – please don’t stop, it feels so –“ he takes a deep, gulping breath and turns his head, rubs it against Athos’ stomach and makes him pull on his hair again, “I – I want you to –“

Again he stops talking and tries to push his hips forward, and when Athos looks down he can see with how much strength Porthos is holding on to him, how deeply his fingers press into Aramis’ flesh.

He can see Porthos’ head moving up and down, hears the sound of his mouth on Aramis’ cock, and Athos gently loosens the grip of his left hand on Aramis’ hair and reaches down to put it on Aramis’ chest instead. “What do you want, Aramis?” he prompts in a smooth voice. “What do you want us to do for you?”

“Hold me,” Aramis sobs, and his voice seems to tear out of his body, like a fleeing bird, “hold me, _please_ – don’t let me, ah – don’t –“ He finally lifts his right hand, puts it over Athos’ on his chest and grabs onto him, “please don’t let me go.”

“We won’t,” Athos promises him, taking Aramis’ hand into his and twisting the other one into Aramis’ hair, pulling on it until Aramis moans, “there is no getting away, my friend – we shall not let you go.”

Porthos’ hands move up from Aramis’ hips, move over his skin until they span his waist, and still he is moving his head, still he is luring sigh after helpless sigh out of Aramis’ throat.

“You belong to us,” Athos says, and it is as though he can hear the echo of Porthos’ voice over his own, “and you want us to keep you, do you not?”

“Yes,” Aramis sobs, and his body goes lax and pliant all of a sudden, “yes, I want that – I – I want to belong to you, only to you.”

Athos is not surprised when Porthos lifts his head at that, when he presses his swollen mouth to Aramis’ and muffles another broken sob breaking off his lips.

Athos watches them kiss, hears Aramis whine into it, and he grabs Aramis’ hand a little tighter, holds him as firmly as possible without causing him pain. He can feel Aramis’ pulse flutter beneath his grip, and he rubs his thumb over it, enjoys the way Aramis presses back into him. “You are ours, as we are yours, my friend; and we will not let you go.”


	10. Chapter 10

Watching Aramis and Porthos kiss makes Athos believe in the fairy tales of his childhood – just a little. It makes him believe in fate, and true love, perhaps even magic.

For who could act the role of prince in disguise better than Porthos? Few men worked as hard as he did for their place in the world and still stayed true to who they are; and although Aramis is not quite the innocent maiden the stories call for, he most certainly is a hero in his own right – helplessly romantic, always willing to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.

Watching them kiss feels like home, the one Athos lost and the new one he built for himself out of the ashes of his dreams, and Athos cannot call it anything but happiness – that feeling spreading out inside his chest when he sees the two of them together.

Porthos is kissing Aramis as though he wants to drown in him, not quite lost to passion but close enough to it that he answers Aramis’ helpless moans with sounds of longing of his own – low, guttural noises, possessive and greedy.

It does not happen all that often that Porthos gets like this – that he lets go of control and allows himself to simply _be_. It is beautiful to behold, even more so with the way Aramis reacts to it.

Because without Porthos guiding them there is no guidance at all, just … just love.

Athos twists his fingers into Aramis’ hair and looks down at them from his place behind the chair, feels Aramis’ heartbeat in the hand he holds so very firmly pressed against Aramis’ chest.

He feels safe in the knowledge that he is allowed to witness this – that he is not an outsider merely looking on, but _part_ of it, somehow integral to the happiness of both his friends, although he will never understand why.

They are so good together. They do not need him.

But still they want him. Still they draw him in and make space for him in their midst.

Athos watches Porthos’ head pull back at last, watches Porthos’ expression morph from sweet satisfaction to devious awareness, and pleasure trickles down his spine.

Aramis is still hard, is gasping between them now that Porthos is no longer claiming his mouth and muffling the sounds dripping off his lips. They are holding him so very tightly, Athos and Porthos, barely allow him to move at all, and it appears that Aramis quite enjoys the sensation.

He does not try to get loose, but merely struggles – just enough to feel it, just enough to feel their hands on him and make sure they will not let go.

“This time you are the one who is teasing,” Athos says softly, and Porthos looks up at him, a dark grin in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he admits, and his voice sounds rough from sucking Aramis’ cock, “and I must admit I rather like it.”

Aramis makes a happy noise and pushes his head back against Athos’ stomach, arches his body closer towards Porthos. “Ah, I don’t mind – it feels too good being held like this between the two of you.”

“That’s what I thought,” Porthos purrs at him, and strokes his hands up and down on Aramis’ waist. “No complaints from you, eh?”

“None at all,” Aramis confirms.

Porthos rewards him by leaning forward and licking over the tip of Aramis’ cock, just once, before he moves his head to the side and kisses Aramis’ stomach.

Aramis gasps and moans, and only gets louder when Porthos opens his mouth to drag his teeth over his sensitive skin. Athos watches, Aramis’ hair gliding through his fingers like silk, and he grips it a little tighter, draws some gasps and moans of his own out of Aramis.

“Come now, Porthos,” he drawls after a few minutes of watching, “you never make me suffer like this.”

He can sense more than see the grin on Porthos’ face, and when he speaks, Porthos’ voice is just the littlest bit softer than before. “But then you don’t enjoy sufferin’ like he does – isn’t that right, kitten?”

Aramis sighs and nods, and Athos squeezes his hand quite automatically – makes Aramis smile.

“I love it,” Aramis murmurs, sounding drunk with bliss, “I love you.”

They assure him that they love him too, and then Porthos looks up at Athos and tilts his head, a wicked smile in his eyes. “You want me to make him come, love?” he asks, and Aramis bites his lip and squirms on the chair – makes Athos stroke his fingers through his hair again.

“Yes,” Athos hears himself say, and he grips Aramis’ hair tightly when he hears him whimper, “make him come – make him feel good.”

“Oh,” Aramis says, breathless, his voice as good as gone, “oh, Athos – that – _you_ –“ and then Porthos is leaning over his lap and swallowing him down again, and Aramis’ voice gives up on him.

Athos watches his mouth fall open without any sound coming out, watches Aramis’ eyes roll back in his head, and it gives him a strange thrill, to see him come undone like this – to watch him come apart between them without a hint of shame.

“Just like that,” he whispers, stroking his fingers through Aramis’ hair, “that looks so good – do you like it, Aramis?”

Aramis’ eyes fly up to his face at the question, and he bucks his hips, entirely out of control. Porthos grunts and holds him down, and Aramis stares up at Athos, helpless and grateful – mesmerized.

“We love you so much,” Athos tells him, his touch as gentle as his voice, and he lets go of Aramis’ wrist so he can entwine their fingers, “so much, Aramis.”

Aramis whines and comes – lifts his free hand and twists his fingers into Porthos’ curls, hangs on to him for dear life.

They hold him through it, both of them, caress his skin and his hair, and Athos finds himself whispering sweet nonsense he must have picked up from Porthos, maybe even Aramis himself.

He does not know anymore.

Once Aramis has nothing more to give, Porthos presses a kiss to his soft cock, licks him clean and re-laces his undergarments. Athos watches the proceedings from his position behind the chair, is still holding Aramis’ hand, is still brushing his fingers through Aramis’ hair.

“You alright, kitten?” Porthos asks when Aramis stays quiet for longer than seems altogether normal – and all Aramis does in answer is let his fingers glide out of Porthos’ hair and cup his cheek instead.

Porthos smiles at him, turns his face into Aramis’ touch and kisses his palm, and Aramis takes a deep breath. “I – that … that never happened to me … before.”

“What?” Athos asks, and he stays where he is despite the sudden urge to move in front of Aramis and look into his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I feel all … light,” Aramis murmurs, and in a way he still sounds drunk, unsteady and shaking.

Porthos rubs his hands up and down Aramis’ thighs, his skin dark in contrast to the linen, and his voice sounds very warm when he speaks. “Feels good, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, as happy as Athos ever heard him, “very good.” He puts his head back, looks up at Athos out of sparkling eyes, and he looks so trusting, so terribly young. “Will you cut my hair now?”

Athos leans down and over him, and brushes a kiss to his lips. “Of course,” he whispers. “Whatever you ask, my friend.”

Aramis sighs into their kiss, happy and carefree, and Athos straightens and strokes his hands over Aramis’ naked shoulders.

He wonders vaguely whether he behaves in a comparable manner after Porthos executes his dominance over him – whether his moments of weakness do in fact look like this.

Because if they do, then Porthos is right.

There is nothing ugly, nothing at all shameful about this.

Aramis is beautiful. 

But then, he always is.

Athos retrieves the brush he put away earlier, and drags it through Aramis’ hair a few times until it is once more smooth and soft, and only then does he take the pair of scissors in hand.

Aramis does not say anything, does not move, but the way he holds himself looks relaxed and content, and Athos does not ask for more.

Porthos is still kneeling on the floor in front of Aramis, is still petting him, and Athos needs to do nothing more than look at his face to know that Aramis is still in that space between right and wrong, completely trusting, entirely safe.

“Such a pretty kitten,” Porthos murmurs, and he lifts his head to look at Athos, to smile at him and cast his light on Athos’ heart, “Isn’t he, love?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, brushing his fingers through Aramis’ hair, wielding the scissors with careful precision, “very.”

“Can we do this more often?” Aramis asks then, sounding not quite as intoxicated anymore, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this nice.”

“There’ll be none of your hair left if we do this too often,” Porthos teases him, and Athos lifts a sceptical brow.

“I do not think he was referring to that, Porthos.”

“Yeah,” Porthos chuckles, “I know.”

He finally moves up from his knees, leans forward with a slight grunt and kisses Aramis’ forehead. “We’ll do this in bed next time, eh?”

“So we’ll do it again?” Aramis persists, sounding eager, and Athos, deciding that Aramis’ hair is short enough now, puts the scissors away and finally moves in front of him.

“You did enjoy yourself, did you not?”

Porthos steps to the side to sweep the cut hair into a pile and throw it out the window, allowing Athos unrestricted scrutiny of Aramis’ face. It still feels strange to watch him flush – strange and wonderful.

“Yes,” Aramis admits, and it seems that he barely manages to hold Athos’ gaze, “I … I enjoyed it very much.”

“Then we will do it again,” Athos tells him – sinking to his knees in front of Aramis, just like Porthos did. “We enjoy making you feel good, you know?”

For a long moment all Aramis does is look at him. Then he moves – leans forward on the chair and puts his arms around Athos, hides his face in the crook of his neck. “You are … you are far too good to me.”

“No,” Athos whispers into his ear, and returns the embrace, “no, I am not – not at all.”

Aramis burrows into him with a sigh, too relaxed and happy to be shy or hesitant, and Athos closes his eyes and simply holds him. He can hear Porthos moving through the room around them, can feel his gaze on them as though it was a physical touch, and when Aramis sighs once more and moves his head – pressing his lips to Athos’ skin – Athos sighs with him, too content for words.

“You know,” Porthos speaks up, “when I was watchin’ you two circlin’ each other like weary cats for all those years, I really didn’t expect this to happen – but I’m rather glad it did.”

When he opens his eyes and looks for him, Athos finds Porthos sitting on the bed, wearing his trousers and boots, and a possible retort freezes on his tongue. “You are going out?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says over the grumbling sound leaving Aramis’ throat, “I promised Constance a visit.”

That changes the tone of Aramis’ expression, and he brightens. “Do you think she would object to us accompanying you?”

“I don’t know why she should,” Porthos replies, and smiles at him. “You wanna help cheer her up?”

That does indeed seem to be Aramis’ intention; so they get dressed and leave Aramis’ lodgings. As soon as they close the door behind them they step into a gale of cold wind, and Aramis laughs in delight when both Porthos and Athos immediately huddle a little closer to him.

“You are too kind,” he says once they are on their way down the street, “I’m quite in favour of this development.”

“I bet you are,” Porthos replies with a smile, and looks at Athos who is walking on Aramis’ right side.

He seems oddly proud, Athos thinks, proud and very happy indeed, and while he cannot be sure of the reason for Porthos’ pride, Athos at least hopes to be privy to the origin of his happiness.

 

Constance is standing outside on the street when they arrive at her house. She is talking to another woman at least ten years her senior, taller than her, with dark skin and a broad, pleasant face. Both of them are frowning, and while her friend looks sad rather than angry, Constance is clearly furious. As soon as she detects them, she moves – bids the woman goodbye with a gentle touch to her shoulder and advances on them with something akin to murder in her eyes.

Athos slows in his tracks when he takes in her expression, but neither Aramis nor Porthos seem to be deterred at all by her warlike demeanour, so he marches on as well.

They meet in the middle of the street, and Constance does not waste any time on pleasantries. “You’re showing up as if on cue,” she says, wry satisfaction coating her words, and continues without further preamble, “I need your help.”

“’S everythin’ alright?” Porthos asks, and scans her appearance for injury in that unsubtle manner of his. “What happened?”

Aramis and Athos exchange a look behind his back, smiling ever so faintly at one another.

“I’m fine,” Constance assures him, softening, if just for a moment. “You saw the woman I just talked to?”

“Yeah, sure,” Porthos replies, still worried, if not quite as much as before, “is she alright?”

Constance smiles as well then, because who would not in the face of such chivalrous concern for a stranger’s well-being. “Not really, no. Her daughter Odette got married a month ago.”

“That’s not usually a reason to fret,” Aramis quips, waggling his eyebrows when he really should not.

Athos clears his throat before Constance can yell at him. “Your friend objects to the husband?”

“Yes, she does,” Constance hisses, narrowing her eyes at Aramis, her voice jagged and cold. “He hits her daughter.”

Porthos makes a growling noise, and Aramis frowns quite heavily. “Ah. We can’t have that.”

“No, we really cannot,” Athos agrees softly. “Be so good as to provide us with an address, Madame Bonacieux?”

Her smile changes, into something sharp and dangerous, so clearly in favour of every form of intimidation and violence they might come up with – and Porthos’ repertoire is indeed vast and varied – that Athos very nearly smiles back.

Instead he keeps a sober expression, extracts the address from her willing lips, and parts from her with a business-like nod.

“Come over and tell me how it went once you’re done,” Constance tells them, a grim set to her mouth, “I want to hear everything about that.”

With that she sends them off on their way down the street and goes inside her house to wait for their return. The offender, one Christophe Folquet lives just a few minutes away, and according to Constance, he should be at home right now. With Odette even.

“So, ah – how do we do this?” Aramis asks and directs a questioning glance up at Porthos, who looks remarkably determined.

“I’m gonna drop him a hint that I’m gonna have an eye on things from now on, or more precisely on his _wife_ ,” Porthos answers, looking straight ahead.

Aramis regards his profile and frowns. “Will that be enough?”

Porthos turns his head then, and there is nothing of the usual humour and kindness in his face. “You don’t think so?”

He looks dangerous, like a wolf about to attack, very nearly snarling in anger, and Aramis stares at him in amazement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this, my friend.”

He does not seem to be frightened by so much as uncomfortable with Porthos’ appearance, and Athos claps him on the shoulder. “Yes you have,” he says softly. “It is true that you were mostly standing behind him at the time, but it still counts.”

Porthos huffs and does not add anything, and Aramis directs his attention towards Athos, brows lifted, eyes wide. “And when was that, if you please?”

“When the Duke de Veillon payed us a visit, to give just one example,” Athos replies with a slight drawl. “How do you think we get rid of enraged visitors to the garrison so quickly?”

Aramis’ expression turns blank at the mention of the Duke and the memories it conjures up, and he averts his gaze, looks down at the ground. “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

“That wasn’t supposed to be a jab against you attractin’ some unwanted attention,” Porthos growls and jostles Aramis hard enough to make him stumble into Athos and further underneath his arm. “It was just an example – right Athos?”

“Yes, of course,” Athos hastens to agree while he gently steers Aramis back on track and squeezes his shoulder. “You know our Porthos – he gets angry all the time. Such an intimidating, daunting personage, really.”

Aramis smiles at the mild jest, and remains beneath Athos’ arm – and Athos looks at Porthos out of the corner of his eye.

As understanding as he usually is, Porthos takes strong exception to husbands hitting their wives – takes exception whenever people turn against those they are supposed to take care of and care for.

Those are the only times he loses his calm and all self-control, when he turns feral in a way he does not even do in combat.

Porthos loves to fight, is a natural brawler, and when it comes to battle he uses his quick mind as much as his strength, can turn anything into a weapon.

But when those in power hurt those without, Porthos does not stop to think; he does not calculate, and he does not plan – does not utilize any weapon besides his fists.

His temper burns quick and bright then, turns his inner fire into a flame tall enough to swallow him whole and leave nothing but burned ash in his path.

“Try to stay calm,” is what Athos says to him when they reach Christophe Folquet’s house and knock on the rat-eaten door – but when Odette is the one to answer that knock, her face so swollen that she can barely open her eyes, Athos does not even try to hold Porthos back.

Neither does Aramis.

They both stand back and watch as he pushes his way inside the house with a furious growl – they gently steer the frightened woman outside and out of harm’s way while Porthos crashes through the house, yelling for Christophe.

“I’d better make sure he does not kill him,” Athos says after a moment of listening to the clamour, and briefly turns his attention on Odette, shivering with confusion and fear. “Your mother sent us,” he says with a smile that is not so much sarcastic as desperately trying to overcome the painful situation without upsetting her any more than she already is. “If you would excuse me.”

He looks at Aramis and receives a nod, and for a split-second Athos marvels at how easy it is – how they understand each other without words, and know what to do without the need to spell it out.

Aramis will take care of Odette, while Athos makes sure that Porthos does not murder anyone – thus applying their talents in the most sensible manner, and making sure that no harm befalls anyone who does not deserve it.

Athos knows that Odette is safe with Aramis, that Aramis will calm her and deploy his charm to soothe her nerves; so Athos does not worry about them while he steps over the threshold and into the house.

It is rather dark inside, with the curtains drawn over every window and no source of illumination besides the light sneaking its way around the fabric. Athos walks through a tidy but empty parlour, and eventually finds Christophe Folquet in the kitchen with his back to the stove and Porthos’ hand around his throat. It sounds as though Folquet is gurgling excuses, or maybe pleas for mercy. Even from Athos’ position all across the room he can see the whites of the man’s eyes as he struggles in vain to free himself from Porthos’ grip.

His fingernails scratch over the back of Porthos’ hand while his feet scrape over the floor, desperate to find purchase – but Porthos is too tall and too strong and altogether far too angry to heed his pathetic attempts.

Athos moves further into the room, very slowly and deliberately, and when he raises his voice, he takes care to sound calm, “Porthos.” 

Porthos’ head twitches to the side, but he does not answer, does not loosen his grip on Folquet’s neck, and Athos keeps his eyes on Porthos’ back while he edges closer to him. “Porthos,” he says again, carefully studying the way Porthos is holding his shoulders, trying to gauge how much rage needs to be mastered, “you’re choking him.”

“That’s the plan,” Porthos growls – and he barely sounds human, sounds all teeth, pure fury. “You saw her – you saw what he did to her face.”

“Yes, I saw,” Athos agrees in a calm voice, and he does not so much care about what happens to Folquet as he cares about Porthos’ actions and his conscience. “But I believe we should ask the lady of the house for her opinion on the matter before we kill her husband, yes?”

For a precarious moment nothing at all seems to happen. The air in the kitchen, thick with the smell of onions, stands like a wall between Athos and Porthos; but then the moment ends, and Porthos lets go of Folquet. He steps to the side – lets the man fall forward and onto his knees, taking deep, coughing gulps of air – and turns around to look at Athos.

Porthos’ eyes are wide, burn with a fire so hot that Athos assumes its kind can otherwise only be found in the pits of Hell. But there is fear too – the fear of going too far, of besmirching the title of musketeer and disappointing his brothers.

Athos closes the distance between Porthos and himself with a few quick steps until he is by his side and can touch his shoulder, ever so lightly.

Porthos is tense, is holding himself so very upright that it looks painful, and Athos does not need to look at his face again to know how much wrath still sits there.

“Who the hell are you?” Folquet coughs from his place on the floor, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Athos squeezes Porthos shoulder – not in warning, not trying to hold him back, but trying to calm him, trying to offer … to offer comfort. “We are here on behalf of Madame Folquet,” he explains in a cold voice. “That much should be obvious, should it not?”

The muscles of Porthos’ shoulder twitch beneath his touch, and Athos lets go of him, watches Porthos lean down and drag Folquet back to his feet, to hold him upright by the front of his shirt.

“My wife?” Christophe gasps out, sounding utterly amazed, and Athos directs a cold stare at him.

“Until you treat her in a manner befitting that title I would refrain from calling her that.”

“But,” Christophe pants, obviously struggling for breath as much as for words, “but she – you don’t understand! She’s a lazy slattern, she de-“

“Don’t you dare,” Porthos snarls at him, and shakes the man hard enough to rattle his teeth, “don’t you dare say she deserved it – no-one deserves that, least of all the woman you married!”

Folquet whimpers and does not say anything else. It seems he finally grasps the situation he finds himself in.

He stares from Athos to Porthos like a trapped hare, desperate for a way of escape; he does not appear to be doing anything but state the obvious when he cries out, “You’re musketeers!”

“Yes,” Athos drawls, impatient and entirely without sympathy, “we are.”

“Aren’t you supposed to protect people?” Folquet squeals, and Athos does not have to look at Porthos to know that he is grinning now – dark and dangerous, showing all of his teeth, but none of his compassion.

“We’re doin’ just that, aren’t we, Athos?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees smoothly, “we are.”

Aramis joins them at this point – Athos can hear him entering the kitchen, recognizes him by his step, and by the way he clears his throat. “I have restored Madame Foulqet to her mother for the time being, as per her request,” he says quietly. Then he steps closer, positions himself on Porthos’ right side and sighs – in his usual dramatic manner. “I see the villain is still breathing? How disappointing. You’re losing your edge, Porthos.”

“I’m not yet finished with ‘im,” Porthos growls back, but he sounds just the littlest bit softer than before, as though he needed Aramis’ presence and his theatrics to find his balance. “I thought maybe you wanted a stab at him, too.”

“That’s indeed very considerate of you,” Aramis says, smiling without warmth, without even a hint of his usual charm. “Where do you want me to stab him?”

Porthos promptly indicates a random spot on Folquet’s chest, and Aramis draws his dagger, making the man squirm in fresh panic. “Consider this a valuable lesson,” Aramis says, his voice pleasant enough, while he places the tip of his knife on Folquet’s chest, and Porthos’ grip on the man ensures that he cannot get away.

“Lesson?” Folquet squeaks, “What are you –“

“You don’t hit your wife!” Porthos snarls at him. “You don’t _ever_ hit your wife – do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes, yes – I do!” Folquet hastens to say, his eyes bulging as he tries to stare down to where the point of the dagger touches his naked skin above the hem of his shirt, “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“Should she wish to return to you,” Athos says smoothly. “We will leave that decision to her.”

“Yes,” Folquet agrees immediately, apparently a fast learner when faced with sharp weaponry and the possible loss of blood, “it’s entirely up to her!”

“Good,” Athos replies. “And just in case you are contemplating paying her a visit once we are gone – I urge you not to do that.”

“Because we’d know,” Aramis adds, adopting the same smooth tone of voice Athos had used, only with a little more charm to it, “and then we would have to come back.”

“And you wouldn’t want that,” Porthos concludes, his tone everything but smooth, “would you?”

Folquet is smart enough not to answer that question. Instead he keeps his head down, and swallows thickly before he says anything. His neck is already turning purple where Porthos grabbed him. “I’ll leave her alone.”

“Good boy,” Aramis croons – and then it is over.

Aramis pulls his knife back and sheaths it, and they step away from Folquet as one, leave him behind in his cold kitchen, and exit the house.

One look at Porthos once they are outside tells Athos that he is still angry, that he is still hurt and bewildered by Folquet’s treatment of his wife, and Athos does not know what to say to him to abate his pain.

He feels Aramis’ gaze on him, and they exchange a helpless glance. For the moment it seems as though they can do nothing but stay at Porthos’ side and walk with him in silence.

Because what are they supposed to tell him?

There will always be men like Christophe Foulqet.

They reach Constance’s home, and Porthos heaves a deep sigh, puts his head back and looks up at the grey sky for a moment – looks back down, stares at the dirt at his feet and shakes his head. “I just don’t get it.” He does not sound angry anymore. He sounds heartbroken.

He steps inside the house before Athos or Aramis have a chance to react, calls out Constance’s name and eventually finds her in the parlour. “’S done,” he tells her with a tired smile. “He won’t do it again.”

Constance blinks up at him from her place at the table, interrupted in some complicated-looking mathematics, and instead of smiling back at him, she frowns – glances away from Porthos’ travesty of a smile and right at Athos. “What happened?”

“We took care of the matter,” Aramis says when Athos does not answer, doing his very best to sound light-hearted. “Porthos was marvellous.”

“I bet he was,” she replies, and her eyes skirt over Porthos as though he was a startled deer, poised for flight. “Did you see Odette?”

“Yes,” Porthos says, and the one word must tell her everything, for she looks stricken all of a sudden, gets up from the table and moves towards Porthos as though she wants to embrace him.

Aramis clears his throat, when she lifts her arms, and she takes Porthos’ hands instead, holds them between hers and looks up at him with an expression that is as grateful as it is sad. “Thank you – for … for helping her.”

“It was nothin’, really,” he says, still sounding cheerless, and she bites her lip. “I got fresh milk from the market,” she blurts, just a heartbeat later, and a slight flush springs to her cheeks. “Would you like some?”

That gets a real smile out of him, and he nods, grins just boyishly enough to send warmth down Athos’ back. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She smiles back and pulls him with her to the kitchen, where she supplies him with the promised milk and does not even pretend to offer some to Aramis and Athos as well.

Athos suspects her of favouritism, and, even worse, of having bought that milk exclusively for Porthos’ benefit. Athos cannot remember ever having seen her drink some – not that this would be suspicious in itself, he does not spend that much time in her company. One glance at Aramis confirms that he must be harbouring similar suspicions and is indeed jealous once more.

He is pouting rather obviously in his corner of the kitchen.

Athos has to suppress a little smile, and he walks over to Aramis, inclines his head to whisper in his ear. “You do remember that her interest lies elsewhere, yes?” His reward is a wide-eyed stare of embarrassment, and this time Athos is entirely unable to hide a smile. “I am rather glad that she seems to know him so well.”

“I know just as well that he is fond of milk,” Aramis whispers back, still just as obviously jealous as before, “I could’ve bought him some.”

“Now you do not have to,” Athos replies, fighting very hard not to reach out and touch Aramis’ face – to put his fingertip on the right corner of Aramis’ mouth and stroke over that pout.

Aramis must see part of that desire on Athos’ face, for he looks alert suddenly, and the pout is very nearly gone – replaced by an expression of hopeful interest.

“Can I ask what you did to Christophe?” Constance inquires at that point, and Athos turns around, torn between relief and very mild resentment.

“We did nothing at all to him,” he says, glancing over at Porthos and looking into his eyes. “We merely informed him of our opinion on his behaviour towards his wife.”

Constance makes a sceptical noise. “Yeah, right – because you’re always so subtle.”

“We are immensely subtle,” Aramis pipes up, “and I resent the implication that you believe otherwise!”

That gets a chuckle out of Porthos, “Yeah, he barely noticed my hand round his throat.”

Aramis looks torn between being proud of making Porthos laugh and regretful that he reminded him of the scene at all, and Athos carefully clears his throat, “His bruise will fade. We did no lasting damage. I can only hope he will refrain from accosting anyone in retaliation.”

“You call us if he does anythin’ stupid, yeah?” Porthos growls, and Constance smiles and hands him another jug of milk.

“Of course I will. I know I can count on you to put the fear of God into him.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Oh, by the way – did you need something earlier?” Constance supplies Porthos with more milk and grins at the way some drops cling to his moustache. “The way I swept in on you I didn’t give you any chance to say something.”

She is looking at Athos again, for some strange reason, and he clears his throat, “We were merely accompanying Porthos.”

She blinks, apparently confused by this answer, and Athos elaborates, “He wanted to pay you a visit.”

That gets a smile out of her, and she tilts her head, “ _He_ wanted to pay me a visit?”

“He said he had promised you one,” Aramis says, sounding halfway suspicious already, and when Athos turns his head to look at him, Aramis is eyeing Porthos in a rather guarded manner – as though he actually suspects him of having made that up.

Athos is precariously close to rolling his eyes, but Constance laughs. “Yes, he did, but I didn’t expect him to bring the whole regiment with him!”

Her reaction to his nonsense seems to throw Aramis off balance, and he backs down, visibly embarrassed. “He didn’t think you would object.”

“I’m not objecting!” Constance exclaims, her expression morphing into one of perplexed amusement. “What’s with you today? Why are you acting like this?”

“What do you mean, today?” Porthos intervenes calmly and puts his empty jug of milk down on the table. “He’s always like this.”

“No,” Constance says slowly, her brows knit into a delicate frown, “he’s … different.”

That statement leads to a moment of loaded silence, while Constance looks back and forth from Aramis to Porthos, as though the key to her riddle is to be found somewhere in the air between them.

Eventually Porthos sighs. “Yeah, well … we came by to take your mind off of … things a bit. Only then that Folquet business happened ...”

This explanation only seems to confuse her more. Porthos is a horrible liar, always has been, and it does not surprise Athos at all when Constance scrunches up her nose and flails her hands. “But he only got weird once –“ She stops mid-sentence, and Athos watches her eyes widen, as though she has suffered a sudden epiphany.

Sometimes it frightens Athos how very perceptive she is, and he can only hope she mistakes Aramis’ jealousy for that of an overly possessive friend rather than that of a lover.

Her face – in strong contrast to Aramis’ – certainly betrays nothing now that she has regained control over herself. “Never mind. I’m sorry I involved you in this matter, but I just didn’t know how –“

“Eh, don’t be sorry,” Porthos interrupts her gently. “We … we saw her. She needed help … and I guess I’m just better at intimidatin’ people than you are.” He sounds sad again, and Constance narrows her eyes at Aramis for a moment – seems to contemplate what would be the best course of action – before she turns her gaze back to Porthos and speaks. “Would you mind it very much if I cut your visit short? As much as I like having you here, I’d really like to go and see how she’s doing.”

“Naw, we don’t mind,” Porthos answers, his voice understanding and kind. “Tell her to take care, yeah?”

“I will,” she promises, and takes his hands into hers once more. “You do too, yes? Take care, I mean?”

“Always,” he replies with a fond grin, and she smiles up at him, friendly and warm.

Athos studies Aramis out of the corner of his eye and finds that he seems to have a hold on his jealousy for once.

He does look tense though, alert and nervous, as though waiting for something unpleasant to happen.

They take their leave of Constance, and refrain from escorting her to the house of Odette’s parents when she insists on going alone. She is barely out of earshot when Aramis latches on to Porthos’ arm, and presents him with a grimace of guilt. “I’m so sorry my friend!”

Porthos does not even pretend to misunderstand him. “Constance? Really? Flea and Alice I could understand, at least a bit – but _Constance_?”

It makes Athos glad beyond compare that Porthos smiles while saying the words, that he is teasing Aramis in a voice as fond as it is amused. Athos really should have known that Porthos would take Aramis’ jealousy in good humour.

It is after all very difficult to make Porthos lose his temper.

Meanwhile Aramis is looking even more contrite than before. “I – I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Porthos exclaims, putting on a mask of exaggerated disbelief. “I find that very strange – because I most certainly know,” he says grinning, “and I bet Athos knows, too.”

“Well, yes,” Athos admits with a slight drawl, his mouth pulling into an even slighter smile. “You were not precisely subtle, Aramis.”

“He never is,” Porthos claims, sounding delighted, and claps Aramis’ shoulder with a force that makes Aramis wince; but he stays beneath Porthos’ arm, stays close to him while they walk down the street side by side, and the guilt and embarrassment have dropt off his face.

“I’ll try to be better,” he murmurs after a while, “I promise.”

“A better actor, yeah?” Porthos chuckles, “Because I don’t think you’ll get the other thing under control any time soon.”

Aramis smiles at him, not so much flustered as gladly admitting defeat. It is a good smile, comfortable and restful, makes Aramis look right at home beneath Porthos’ arm. “I will strive to hide it better in the future, yes.”

“Just try and remember that there’s really no reason for you to be jealous, yeah?” Porthos murmurs into Aramis’ ear. “I’ve no intention of puttin' up with anyone but you two.”

“Yes, I expect we’re exhausting enough, even for you,” Aramis quips, and Porthos laughs and pulls him a little closer still.

It looks to Athos as though Porthos is severely tempted to throw off Aramis’ hat and ruffle his hair, and he smiles quietly to himself, glad that Porthos seems to have forgotten his earlier gloom – at least for the moment.

“So,” Aramis asks when they reach the end of the street, “where to now?”

Athos raises one brow at him, and receives an overly dramatic sigh in response. “Must we?”

“Work for our wage?” Athos asks back, arching his brow yet a little higher. “I believe we must, yes.”

Aramis grumbles, but does not voice any real protest; so they report to the garrison, where the Captain makes a great show of their sudden appearance, and claims to have been precariously close to planning yet another tragic funeral when Athos did not report for duty this morning.

Aramis laughs at the jest, but Porthos frowns heavily, and Treville smiles at him. “Still not over the last time?”

Porthos mumbles something unintelligible and stares at the ground like a child refusing to meet their parent’s eyes. The Captain smiles even wider. “I see. D’Artagnan is already out patrolling the streets – if you’re lucky you might meet him on your way through the harbour district.”

He orders them to pay special attention to possible smugglers, and sends them on their way.

Porthos walks in the middle while they march towards their destination, his head down and his shoulders tense.

It looks as though the Captain’s joke has brought back all his earlier gloom, and Athos’ mind is buzzing, frantically searching for words, for _anything_ to make him feel better.

It does not surprise him at all when Aramis is the one to speak up – Aramis has always been better at joking in the face of trouble, be it emotional or otherwise. “You want us to stop by the market, buy some more milk?” he asks Porthos in a deceptively light voice. “Or does that only work for Constance?”

Porthos huffs and does not reply, and Aramis’ smile morphs into a frown. “Is it that godforsaken funeral you’re sad about or that villain Folquet?”

Once more, Porthos does not answer, and Aramis touches his elbow, very gently. “Because our dearest Athos is very much alive, and Odette will be fine – her mother promised me –“

“I almost killed him,” Porthos grunts then, his eyes on the ground in front of him, “Would’ve done it too if Athos hadn’t stopped me.”

Aramis looks at Athos then, his face carefully blank. “So?”

“So?” Porthos echoes in a gruff voice, and kicks at a little stone in his path, sends it clattering over the cobbles. “All my life people have looked at me and been afraid, and sometimes I think they’re _right_.”

His words hit Athos right where it hurts, find a way inside his ribcage and send spikes of helpless anger into his heart. He looks at Aramis and finds him looking back, and Athos does not believe he has ever seen Aramis so miserable. They both know how much Porthos hates it to be judged by his appearance – by the colour of his skin and the scar on his face – but neither of them have ever experienced something comparable. They have always been bystanders, always part of the world that looks down on him for being … him.

Nevertheless Athos can see the same heartache he is feeling reflected on Aramis’ face. They may not know what it is like, but seeing Porthos suffer is awful enough.

“They’re _not_ right about you,” Athos hears Aramis say – barely audible over the clamour of a matron calling her numerous offspring inside. “Porthos, you’re – you’re the most gentle soul I’ve ever met.”

“Gentle souls don’t lose control the way I did,” Porthos contradicts him – curt and precise as though he was stating the facts of life.

“You were protecting a helpless woman,” Athos says quietly. “There is nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Porthos acknowledges, impatient and full of self-loathing, “if I’d merely pretended that I meant to strangle that bastard – but I didn’t pretend, and you know it. I heard it in your voice.”

“Yes,” Athos admits, “I knew. Because I wanted to hurt him too. I wanted to make him bleed, and I wanted to see the same pain inflicted on him that he had inflicted on his wife. The way you acted was completely understandable, my friend.”

“I lost control,” Porthos grinds out, “I was raging like a beast –“

“You were true to your emotions,” Athos interrupts him carefully. “You always are; and I think I can speak for Aramis as well when I ask you to please never refrain from being just that.” Athos does not look at Porthos while he says the words, keeps looking straight ahead, eyes wide open – feels Porthos’ and Aramis’ gazes on the side of his face. “Because not only do we love you just the way you are – we _need_ you to be yourself, always.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees from Porthos’ other side, and Athos can hear the smile in his voice. “You know how horrible we are at being simple and honest about … everything really.”

When his words do not result in the desired effect, and Porthos neither smiles nor speaks, Aramis links his arm with Porthos’ and pulls on him to get his attention. “Porthos, please,” Athos hears him whisper, his voice as urgent as it is low, “please never change.”

“Will you _stop_ ,” Porthos growls at that point, and Athos realizes with sudden clarity the reason for his ongoing silence. “You want me to start cryin’ in front of the whole damn street – is that what you’re tryin’ to do?”

Aramis laughs at that, relieved, and Athos smiles, hoping fervently that Porthos will indeed never change – that he will stay hot-headed and quick-tempered, honest and simple and brave … and the sweetest man Athos has ever known.

 

They spend the rest of the day patrolling the harbour district, find d’Artagnan arguing with an old fish-merchant – about what neither of them appears to be entirely certain of, but that does not hinder them – and pull him along before anyone gets hurt.

The boy seems to be glad of their company, regales them with stories about the odd characters he encountered today, and does not ask any questions when Porthos occasionally drops into an uncharacteristically dark mood.

Athos rewards him by sharing their own story as they end their patrol in one of the harbour taverns, tells it while they sit around one of the small wooden tables, close enough that their shoulders touch when two sitting next to each other lean forward at the same time.

Although d’Artagnan looks briefly distracted by the mention of Constance’s name, he focuses on the problem at hand soon enough, and shakes his head over Folquet’s behaviour. “I don’t understand men like that. Only cowards prey on the weak.”

Storm clouds settle on Porthos’ brow, and Athos touches his shoulder, very lightly. “He does not mean you.”

D’Artagnan looks so confused by that assurance that it is almost comical. “Why would I mean Porthos? He doesn’t prey on anyone.”

“There you have it,” Aramis murmurs, regarding the boy with approval, “Listen to the Whelp, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, stop nagging,” Porthos replies, smiling bashfully, “’S not like he was _there_.”

“I still know that you wouldn’t do that!” d’Artagnan exclaims, sounding torn between amazement and indignation. “You _protect_ the weak!”

“Now you’ve done it and upset him,” Aramis says to Porthos, feigning motherly distress and trying to kick Porthos under the table.

“That was my foot,” Athos drawls and leans back in his chair to smile at Aramis when he begs his pardon. “Really, Porthos – it is time you faced the truth and acknowledged that in this one, solitary instance, we are right and you are wrong. I admit readily that it does not happen all that often, but that should not stop you from believing us.”

Porthos is grinning at him now, warm and grateful, and leans back in his chair as well, crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re very eloquent today, aren’t you?”

“It is all a matter of practice,” Athos drawls back, and earns a chuckle.

They do not stay at the tavern for long after that. Athos is reluctant to drink, and the others follow his lead and barely breach the bottle of wine they ordered.

The temperature has dropped significantly since sunset, causing Aramis to shiver violently when they step outside. He suggests they accompany d’Artagnan to his lodgings so he does not get lost, and then they bid the boy good night and walk home themselves.

Athos does not even stop to question the fact that Aramis’ lodgings are already more of a home to him than his own ever were. Those were a necessity, nothing more and nothing less.

It is a cold night, the sky clear and displaying a myriad of stars, and Athos pulls up his shoulders and longs for a fire and a warm bed to burrow into. Aramis, walking between him and Porthos, seems to have a similar idea – links arms with both of them and pulls them closer towards him with insistent force. “It’ll snow any day now,” he says, sounding torn between resentment and childlike wonder while hiding himself from the cold between their bodies. “I don’t like snow.”

“We are aware,” Athos drawls, but he does not pull away. “Although I would argue that with all those blankets you are sufficiently prepared to hold out any cold spell.”

“I have something better than blankets now,” Aramis says, his voice very soft, and Athos looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Much better,” Athos replies, and does not even try to hide the smile pulling at his mouth when Porthos speaks up, “We’ll keep you warm.”

 

It is not that late when they reach Aramis’ lodgings, despite the sun’s absence from the sky. Aramis is the one to light a fire in the hearth, while Porthos busies himself with making a nest out of Aramis’ blankets.

He has shed his jacket and his boots, is labouring in nothing but his shirt-sleeves, and Athos cannot stop staring at his back, at the way his muscles shift and flex beneath the linen.

He unbuttons his own jacket while watching Porthos, and Aramis must have been standing next to him and watching as well for quite a while ere Athos notices his proximity.

“Sometimes I think that old biddy was right when she said he’s more handsome than I am,” Aramis muses quietly, his mouth pulled into a contemplating little pout. “He’s certainly stronger.”

“You are both handsome enough in your own right,” Athos assures him, entirely unable to contain an amused little smile.

For a heartbeat or two Aramis looks downright amazed by this compliment, and he leans in and brushes a kiss to Athos’ lips. “Thank you,” he whispers as he draws back, his eyes closed, savouring the moment.

Athos does not say anything in reply, merely brushes a strand of hair back behind Aramis’ ear.

Porthos is the one watching them now, the firelight reflected in his yes. He is smiling at them, indulgent and fond. “Ready to come to bed?”

“Ah, you know me,” Aramis replies with a sparkling smile of his own. “I’m always ready to come to bed.”

He grabs Athos wrist and pulls him over to Porthos, “Athos was just remarking on how handsome you are.”

“Is that so?” Porthos asks, lifting his hands to Athos’ cheeks and looking into his eyes.

“Yes,” Athos says softly, and when Porthos leans in to kiss him, Athos closes the distance between them eagerly, parts his lips and closes his eyes once more.

He feels Aramis move to stand behind him while the kiss continues, feels him wrap his arms around him from behind, and then Aramis’ mouth is next to his ear, his breath tickling Athos’ skin. “We need to take good care of him tonight, don’t you think?”

Athos makes a little noise, seconding the sentiment, and lifts his hands to the front of Porthos’ shirt, holds on to him while he kisses him more deeply.

He has always felt safe, kissing Porthos, always enjoyed his closeness and his warmth – even on that first night when he hadn’t been kissed properly for more than five years. When he hardly remembered how it felt to be close to someone, and the memory of Ninon and what could have been was an additional weight on his soul.

Now, with Aramis at his back, holding him, Athos feels … he feels stronger than he does when standing alone. Aramis’ touch is gentle; it demands nothing from him, and only gives him warmth.

And because Aramis is there, or maybe just because Athos is no longer the same man he was when Porthos first took care of him, he can stand tall and unafraid, can leave all fear and doubt behind and kiss Porthos like an equal.

Porthos hums in approval when Athos takes control of the kiss, brushes his thumbs over Athos’ cheeks and allows Athos’ tongue to take possession of his mouth; and Athos makes a hungry noise, steps closer to him and grabs the front of Porthos’ shirt a little tighter.

It is a languid kiss, slow and easy, and when Athos reaches one hand up to twist it into Porthos’ curls and pull him down, Porthos comes willingly. He tilts his head down and allows Athos to steer him – as though he needs to be the one being taken care of for once, as though he wants to be as docile and meek as he possibly can.

His hands are warm on Athos’ cheeks, without any intent behind the touch besides showing affection, and Athos feels weak with the sudden yearning to be good to him, to make him feel cherished and loved and _safe_.

Aramis huffs, his breath stirring the hair at the back of Athos’ neck, and strokes his hands over Athos’ sides and down to his waist. “Will you please move it to the bed?”

He sounds neither impatient nor annoyed, but something else entirely – sounds as though watching Athos and Porthos kiss still fills him with delight and wonder.

“Always so impatient,” Porthos murmurs against Athos’ lips, but he does indeed move it to the bed. He only stops to get rid of his trousers before sinking onto the mattress, and grins in delight when Aramis scrambles to follow his example.

Athos goes about it in a more sedate fashion, although he is just as eager to join him as Aramis appears to be.

Porthos pulls Athos onto his lap as soon as he is close enough, and his hands span the width of Athos’ waist with such ease that it sends a spark of heat into Athos’ blood. “Thank you,” Porthos murmurs, a mere breath between their lips, “for … for stoppin’ me today.”

“Always,” Athos whispers, and then they are kissing again, sweet and unhurried, just for the sake of kissing itself.

Athos notices vaguely how Aramis joins them on the bed, how he sits down next to Porthos and leans in, watches them kiss. “Sometimes I could almost convince myself that this would be enough,” he murmurs after a while, “That it would be enough for me to just … to just watch you.”

They break apart to look at him, and Aramis is smiling, his eyes shimmering like velvet in the firelight. “Only then I remember that I get to have even more than that and I –“

He bites his lip, trying to contain his widening smile, and when Porthos dips his head to kiss him, he makes a pleased little noise, gives in immediately.

Athos watches them, strokes the fingers of his left hand through Porthos’ curls and allows his chest to fill with warmth.

It almost aches, how good they look together.

Once again Porthos is the one who gives in, who allows Aramis to take possession of his mouth and lets himself be led, and Athos feels completely relaxed while his eyes rest on Porthos’ face, on the way his lashes fan out over his cheek, how he looks so peaceful and soft in the firelight.

He is not as classically handsome as Aramis, does not have the straight nose and arched brow – but to Athos he is beautiful, delightful to look at, and even better to touch.

Nobody smiles like Porthos does – nobody’s face holds such unexpected joy.

“You are so good,” Athos murmurs, very nearly startled by the sound of his own voice, and he leans in to press a kiss to Porthos’ neck, directly over his pulse. “You are so very good, my friend.”

A little noise leaves Porthos’ throat, vulnerable and surprised, and his hands grab Athos’ waist a little more firmly, hold on to him a little tighter.

“Will you allow us to take care of you tonight?” Athos asks him. “Will you allow us to give back what we have received from you?”

“Will you stop tryin’ to make me cry?” Porthos asks back, sounding only half joking. “If you promise me that, you can do with me whatever you want.”

“Ah, that’s a quite generous permission,” Aramis murmurs, “do you trust us that much?”

For a heartbeat or two all Porthos does is look at him, his eyes shining with emotion. “You know I do,” he whispers then, “blindly, if I have to.”

Aramis returns his gaze, a peculiar little smile dancing around his mouth, and when he leans in, he does so to kiss the tip of Porthos’ nose. “As big and strong as you are my friend – when you look at me like that, all I want to do is hold you.”

Porthos, who closed his eyes when Aramis kissed him, replies with a watery chuckle, “Didn’t I just tell you that you can do with me whatever you want?”

Aramis looks at Athos then, and they both have a hand in Porthos’ curls now, are stroking through his hair with gentle care.

“Will you lie down for us then?” Aramis asks, his face expressing a devotion Athos feels reflected in his own heart. “So we can hold you properly?”

Porthos lets out a fluttering breath and nods. “Yeah, I’d – I’d like that.”

He reluctantly takes his hands off Athos’ waist, since Athos needs to get up from his lap for him to comply; and then Porthos moves, lies down in the middle of the bed, looking strangely small for such a giant of a man.

Aramis lies down on his left while Athos slides into bed on Porthos’ right side, and both of them place their heads on Porthos’ shoulders, frame him with their bodies and hold on to him.

“Is this alright?” Aramis asks him, stroking his hand over Porthos’ belly. “Do you like this?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sounding sleepy and content. “This is really nice.” He turns his head to squint down at Aramis. “You’re not cold, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Aramis assures him with a smile.

“What about you, love – you alright?” Porthos asks then, and Athos reaches up to his neck, strokes his thumb over the Saint Jude pendant Porthos is wearing.

“I am starting to believe that you are wearing this so Aramis and I could find you.” He tugs on the leather cord, ever so carefully, “So you could take up our causes and prevent us from getting lost even more than we already were.”

His reward is a moment of stunned silence, and then Porthos cranes his neck so he can kiss the top of Athos’ head. “So that’s a yes then.”

“Yes,” Athos confirms. “I am alright.” He gently rubs his knuckles over Porthos’ naked chest. “I love you.”

“I know,” Porthos replies and kisses his head again, “I love you too.”

“You two are sickeningly sweet,” Aramis murmurs, sounding immensely satisfied, and Athos can feel the vibrations in the bed when Porthos nudges Aramis in retaliation.

“You’re the one who made him say it – now live with the consequences.”

The fire in the hearth crackles loudly in the silence that follows, and then Aramis lifts his head, stares down at Athos with disbelief in his eyes. “I did what?”

Athos gazes back, a mild confusion taking hold of him. “You … you made me say it.”

That answer prompts Aramis to get into an upright position – to get on his knees beside Porthos and stare down at Athos in bewilderment. “But you told Porthos!”

“Yeah – after he told you,” Porthos says slowly. “What – you thought he was tellin’ me all this time behind your back?”

Aramis bites his lip and does not answer, and Porthos groans. “You’re a bloody fool, you know that?”

The firelight makes it impossible to be certain, but Aramis appears to be blushing furiously. He has balled both hands into fists, so tightly that his knuckles are turning white, and Athos reaches out to him over Porthos’ body and puts his hand over Aramis’ right. “I never told him behind your back. Never.”

“So you … you said it to me … you said it to me first?”

The last word leaves his mouth so softly that it is barely audible. He sounds tentative and hopeful, and terribly afraid of being disappointed.

Athos has no intention of disappointing him. He can be honest, can tell Aramis the truth and make him _happy_.

“I said it to you first,” he confirms.

For a long moment, nobody says anything else, nobody moves. Then Aramis closes his eyes, lifts his face towards the ceiling and remains in that position – takes a deep breath. “I really am a fool, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but you’re our fool,” Porthos tells him fondly. “We love you that way.”

“Dearly,” Athos adds earnestly.

It makes Aramis laugh, that endorsement, sends a little bubble of amusement up his chest and loosens the tightness in his posture. “I don’t know why I keep being this … this stupid.”

“It’s what bein’ in love is like,” Porthos replies in a matter-of-fact voice. “Now stop blamin’ yourself for that and put your foolish head back on my shoulder.”

When Aramis laughs this time, it lights up his entire face, and he complies with the request, lies back down next to Porthos and brushes a kiss to his cheek. “You are very wise.”

“Oh be quiet,” Porthos replies in a gruff voice, apparently labouring under the misapprehension that Aramis is making fun of him.

“I’m serious!” Aramis exclaims – at the same time that Athos raises his head and his voice.

“We mean it, Porthos.”

Porthos glances from one to the other, looking endearingly confused. “How’m I wise? I don’t even got proper book-learnin’.”

Athos smiles and strokes his hand over Porthos’ chest and belly. “I have never seen that stop you. More often than not, your perspective on life is –“

“It’s just so much _better_ than ours,” Aramis chimes in. “You always seem to know just what to say so it doesn’t …”

“… Hurt so much,” Athos finishes softly. “You shine light into the dark places we have kept hidden for too long.”

“You promised to not make me cry again,” Porthos murmurs, sounding indeed a little watery yet again, and Aramis immediately raises his voice.

“It wasn’t me! That was Athos, all by himself! I don’t even know where he _found_ those words – I most certainly don’t have any like those floating around!”

He moves closer to Porthos while talking, presses a kiss to Porthos’ neck when he is finished, and rubs his beard over the sensitive skin. “I’m not as good with words as you two.”

“That’s news to me,” Porthos grunts and slings his arm around Aramis’ middle, keeps him safe and close. “You’re just overwhelmed by Athos’ sudden eloquence.” He peeks at Athos from the corner of his eye. “And I understand that, I really do. I’m all overwhelmed myself. Hardly know where my head’s at.”

Athos rewards him with a little smirk and a kiss, and drawls at him when he pulls back. “Yes, I imagine the fact that I can indeed express myself when the occasion arises comes as a terrible surprise to you.”

“You have no idea,” Porthos replies and steals another kiss. “I may never recover – you might have to kiss it better for _years_.”

There are worse things, Athos supposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and happy holidays to everyone!
> 
> I had such a great year with you guys - writing this story and sharing it with you couldn't have been a lovelier experience.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s1160.photobucket.com/user/uenainauena/media/mood/good/tumblr_ma9n5kilwp1qc4uvwo1_400_zps43ae97fc.gif.html)  
> 
> 
> Until next year, my friends!


	12. Chapter 12

They spend the night like that – holding on to each other, sharing warmth and kisses, but nothing more. Porthos seems content with holding them close and stroking his hands over their backs, and neither Aramis nor Athos initiate anything that might go beyond that.

They press close to Porthos, huddle beneath a number of blankets and try to make him feel as safe and protected as he always does for them.

It amazes Athos how much Porthos seems to enjoy this simple display of their affection, how he goes meek and compliant beneath their touch and sighs with contentment.

The idea that this is what is most important to Porthos enters Athos’ mind, and his throat constricts for a moment, makes breathing somewhat painful. It is quite possible that if Athos asked it of him, Porthos could go back to the way they were, could leave them as lovers behind, and return to being a friend.

What Porthos would miss, should Athos ever lose his mind and let him go, would not be the acts of depravity they shared – it would be this … the intimacy and simplicity of shared warmth and affection.

Maybe it should not amaze him, Athos has known Porthos for long enough, but Aramis seems to be just as surprised, keeps looking at Athos out of wide, wondering eyes, as though he cannot fully grasp what is happening – or not happening.

“Ask him,” Athos murmurs finally, his head still on Porthos’ shoulder, as his hand rests on Porthos’ belly, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric of Porthos’ shirt. “Ask him if he wants more.”

Porthos opens his eyes at that, and blinks sleepy lids at Aramis. “Huh?”

Aramis bites his lip and looks up at him – his expression vulnerable and open. “It’s just that you … you were very generous with me this morning, and I … I was wondering if you’d like me to pay you back.”

“I don’t expect you to give me somethin’ back when I’m nice to you,” Porthos tells him in a drowsy voice. “And even if I did – you’re already doin’ it, kitten.” He yawns and closes his right eye, peeks down at Aramis out of his left. “Or is this not enough for you?”

“It is,” Aramis assures him hurriedly. “I just thought that maybe you’d –” He stops and smiles and cranes his neck to briefly press his lips to Porthos’. “But you don’t.”

“I like this,” Porthos murmurs, sounding as though he was on the brink of sleep. “I like holdin’ you.”

Both his eyes are closed by the time he stops talking, and now Aramis is looking at Athos, helpless affection shining out of his face. He does not need to say anything to make Athos understand what is in his heart – that he cannot believe how lucky he is, that he does not believe he deserves someone like Porthos in his life.

“You are right,” Athos replies, silently, just by returning Aramis’ gaze, “we do not deserve him. Luckily he thinks otherwise.”

Aramis smiles at him and they take each other’s hands, link their fingers over Porthos’ belly.

Athos does not plan on falling asleep like that, but does so anyway.

 

The following week passes slowly.

The Captain sends them out into the harbour district for seven days in a row with the instructions to find the men responsible for bringing a shipload of cheap Spanish wine into the city. Not only have these scoundrels refrained from paying any taxes – and the Crown frowns upon such negligence – some barrels have also gone bad, and poisoned those drinking their contents.

Thankfully no-one has died from the poison yet, but since nobody knows how many barrels were brought into the city, they cannot be certain that it will stay that way.

Their leads on the case are few to begin with, most of them come to nothing when probed, and the people they question are highly uncooperative, and tax even Aramis’ charm.

It is a grey, uncomfortable week, still without snow, but increasingly chilly, and the only moments Athos seems to experience any warmth during that time are those he spends in the arms of his lovers.

They stumble home in the mornings, overtired and frozen to the bone, and more often than not they do not even bother to light a fire, but fall right into bed.

There is no possibility in heaven or hell that Athos could be any more grateful for Aramis and Porthos than he already is; but lying next to them on those lightless mornings, exhausted and frustrated, his chest is so full of love for them that it hurts.

With time Aramis learns to read it in his eyes – can suddenly look at Athos while they are out on the streets, look at him and flush, ball his hands into fists and let out a little breathless laugh … unable to touch, unable to say anything, desperate for privacy.

The knowledge that he finally understands, that he does not need to hear the words anymore to recognize Athos’ affection for him makes the cold easier to bear, makes Athos smile at Aramis with crinkles in the corners of his eyes and light in his heart.

Sometimes he catches Porthos watching them, and it makes him flush in turn how very happy he looks, how quietly proud and grateful he smiles.

Even d’Artagnan seems to smile more when he is with them – at least he always does so when he catches Porthos doing it, as if it was impossible not to in the light of all that happiness.

 

The week passes with barely any progress in their investigation, and Athos can feel the frustration grow inside him with every new lead that turns into yet another dead end.

He probably would not mind so much if people were not still getting sick from the bad wine, but matters being as they are, he would like to present results to his Captain and have the ones responsible punished before the law.

He is sitting inside one of the numerous harbour taverns, wearing an old brown cloak over an even older leather jacket, and a patchy scarf around his neck, and tries to breathe through the thick smoke wafting through the air – a result of the cheap fire-wood and the numerous pipes present in the room.

Athos feels cold despite the layers of clothing, despite the fire – cold and somewhat empty. It is after midday already, and he did not have anything to eat yet. Instead he patrolled the streets, always on the look-out for something out of place.

The door to the taproom opens, letting cold air and Porthos inside, and Athos feels immediately warmer, if just a little.

Porthos grins when he spots him in the corner furthest from the door, and Athos has ample opportunity to take in his appearance as Porthos crosses the room towards him.

They haven’t been wearing their uniforms since they have started this investigation, and while Athos feels uncomfortable in his civilian clothing, and misses the insignia on his shoulder as though it was a living thing ripped from his body, Porthos –

“You look like a pirate,” Athos tells him when Porthos sits down on the rickety little chair next to him, and Porthos’ grin only widens, only accentuates the captivating aura clinging to him like a second shadow.

“You like that.”

“Not as much as Aramis,” Athos drawls, but he cannot deny that Porthos’ clothing suits him – that it makes him look even taller, makes him look dangerous in a way that is far too appealing.

“He certainly complains a lot about us testin’ his self-control lately,” Porthos muses, his eyes sparkling in the dim light of the tavern. Then his gaze sharpens, and he looks Athos over. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I did not find the time,” Athos replies meekly, and accepts the half-loaf of bread Porthos pushes at him beneath the table.

“You’re really bad at feedin’ yourself,” Porthos grunts and leans back in his chair to survey the room. It is rather crowded with people trying to escape the cold outside, and no-one is paying them any significant attention.

“Yes, well, I am even luckier to have you, then,” Athos replies peacefully and smiles when Porthos winks at him. “I am glad that you do not seem to mind overmuch.”

“You haven’t fainted on me yet,” Porthos chuckles. “So we’re good.”

The door opens once more, admitting Aramis and d’Artagnan into the tavern, and although their faces light up a little when they spot them, they do look rather downtrodden.

Aramis especially appears to be gloomy, but that might just be the cold.

“Nothing!” he proclaims as he throws himself into the chair next to Athos, “Either people really don’t know where the wine came from, or they’re the most proficient liars I’ve ever met. They keep claiming that the sellers suddenly just showed up at their doors in the middle of the night.”

Athos frowns and pulls his loaf of bread in half to share it with him. “That is not usually the case.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, failing to hide the smile pulling at his mouth when he sees Aramis eat, visibly hungry, “I mean, I’m told that I’m a horrible judge of character, ‘specially when I’m sober, but –“

“But Aramis is not,” Athos finishes for him. “So it appears that people are telling the truth.”

“Are we even certain that the wine came into Paris through the harbour?” d’Artagnan asks. “I mean – it certainly came into France by ship, but if I were a smuggler –“ he lowers his voice and leans over the table, continues in a whisper, “If I were a smuggler, I would bank somewhere out of sight … in a little boat maybe, and wouldn’t even come near the harbour.”

Athos blinks at him as though the boy was a stranger.

Porthos is not as quiet when he hears this theory. He growls. “We’re a bunch of bloody idiots!”

Aramis groans and slumps in his chair, but he does not say anything – eats more bread instead, in a manner very similar to that of a sulking child.

D’Artagnan sends a nervous glance towards each of them. “You think it’s possible?”

“I think it very likely indeed that it happened just the way you imagine,” Athos drawls. “I find it rather embarrassing that we did not stop to think when the Captain gave us the order to patrol the harbour district.”

“Yeah, just because the first person got sick here doesn’t mean the wine came from here,” Porthos grumbles. He sighs. “So what do we do? Ride along the riverbanks until we find a likely spot? That’ll be fun with the few hours of sunlight we get this time of year.”

Aramis is still sulking his way through his bread and does not say anything. It is d’Artagnan who speaks up instead. “I imagine the smugglers come ashore at night anyway.”

Aramis makes an impatient noise. “We can’t ride out at night in this weather, we can’t see anything – the horses might get hurt.”

“Then we have to find the spot in daylight,” Athos says reasonably, “and wait for the smugglers to come ashore – whenever that may be.”

Aramis sighs. “Well at least that means that we’re done for today – we have maybe two hours of sunlight left.”

Athos lifts one brow. “You are remarkably lacklustre today my friend.”

“Yes, well, I’m cold,” Aramis grumbles, “and with all this running back and forth we haven’t –“ He stops mid-sentence and fiddles with the hem of his gloves. “We haven’t _slept_ properly in a week.”

Porthos laughs at that, hearty and warm, and Aramis glares at him. “If you got as cold as I do, you wouldn’t find it that funny.”

“Heh, you’re right,” Porthos chuckles, “I don’t get that cold – nor that gloomy when I don’t get enough … _sleep_.”

Athos leans back in his chair and regards Aramis out of hooded eyes, his head tilted to the left. “So you want to go home and sleep – is that it?” Out of the corner of his eye he sees d’Artagnan adopt a soft smirk and duck his head, and Athos does not even care that he is being obvious.

Aramis flushes – that is the important thing – flushes and nods eagerly. “Yes, that does sound like a rather … tempting idea, my dearest Athos.”

“Very well then,” Athos drawls, feeling a tell-tale warmth spread through his body that has nothing to do with the temperature in the tavern. “We will report to the Captain and alert him to the fact that the wine is very possibly coming into the city by road and not by water – and then we will turn in for the day.”

“I can tell him,” d’Artagnan offers immediately, “you don’t have to come with me.”

“I believe it will do Aramis good to exercise just a little more before going to bed,” Athos smirks. “He will sleep all the better for it.”

 

The Captain accepts their theory with a resigned smile and sends them home for the rest of the day, saying that they have earned themselves an evening of rest.

Aramis listens to him with barely concealed impatience. He fails to stand still for even a moment, spins his hat in his hands and keeps glancing at Porthos out of the corner of his eye until Porthos’ grin is so wide that people would have to be blind not to notice it.

Athos is severely tempted to stomp on Aramis’ foot to get him to behave properly.

“I understand that you are eager to get home,” he hisses at him when they leave the garrison, “but you are being rather too obvious, my friend.”

For a moment or two Aramis looks surprised – startled even – but then the ready smile springs into his eyes, and he links his arm with Athos’. “Your fault.”

“Your lack of inhibition is my fault?” Athos drawls. “I resent the very idea.”

“Resent it all you want,” Aramis replies airily and pulls on Athos’ arm for emphasis, “Porthos is with me on this one.”

“You know what, I think I actually am,” Porthos says from behind them, “you were a terrible tease again, love.”

He is leaning in to murmur the words directly into their ears, and Athos has to close his eyes for a moment. “And what is this?” he inquires in a faint voice, “what does you whispering like this and breathing on my neck constitute if not teasing?”

“I fed you,” Porthos replies with a smug grin, his mouth so close to Athos’ ear that he can very nearly feel the vibration of Porthos’ voice on his skin – he can most certainly feel Porthos’ warm breath. “I’m allowed.”

There is really no argument in this world or the next to dispute that fact, so Athos does not even attempt to reply.

He feels Aramis’ grin on the side of his face and turns his head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “You are lucky that the Captain does not mind your deportment most of the time.”

“Ah yes, I am a very lucky man,” Aramis agrees with a sparkling smile, “most of all in my friends.” He squeezes Athos’ arm and pulls him a little closer. “I will try to be better tomorrow.”

“Yes, I imagine a night of … proper rest will return you to your usual self,” Athos hears himself say, his voice so heavy with innuendo that Aramis’ gaze turns heated within an instant.

It is exciting – the knowledge that he can do this to Aramis, that words as simple as these make Aramis look at him this way. Athos has never considered himself handsome or particularly appealing, but the way Aramis is looking at him tells a different tale … as does the tone of his voice when he speaks. “Athos, you have to stop,” he murmurs hoarsely, “we aren’t home yet.”

Warmth blooms in Athos’ chest, and he ducks his head, does not know how to handle the sensation bubbling through his veins. It feels strangely addictive, to talk to Aramis like this, to find words that push Aramis’ blood up to his cheeks and turn his eyes black with desire.

“I do beg your pardon,” he replies earnestly – for however good it might feel, it is still irresponsible behaviour – and Porthos claps them both on the shoulder.

“Will you just stop it? You’d melt the snow right off the ground if there was any.”

He sounds immensely satisfied with that state of affairs, and Athos wishes he could close his eyes and lean back into him, could kiss Aramis right here and now.

He cannot, so he refrains, but his hands itch to touch and to hold, and his chest turns hot with longing. He does not mind at all when Aramis quickens his step and pulls him along, still holding his arm.

They reach Aramis’ lodgings soon enough that way, and Aramis is fast to unlock the door and usher them inside, closing it behind them with palpable impatience.

“Come here,” he murmurs as soon as the rest of the world is locked out and can no longer see them, “God, Athos, come here.”

He sounds almost desperate, and Athos follows his request eagerly, steps into his arms and kisses him without a moment’s hesitation.

Aramis’ lips are cold at first, but they warm against his, and Athos opens his mouth willingly when Aramis’ tongue brushes against it, asking for permission.

The kiss turns his body hot from the inside out, sends tingling warmth into his fingertips and makes him forget the cold outside.

He has trouble focusing on anything besides Aramis in his arms, but still he hears Porthos step around them and start to light a fire. That adds just the slightest smidgen of guilt to the emotions cursing through his veins, and Athos breaks the kiss. He gently but firmly pushes Aramis away, just far enough so he can speak. “Porthos, do you want us to help you?”

Aramis huffs out a laugh and presses his face against Athos’ neck, kisses his rapidly warming skin. “I don’t think he minds, dearest Athos.”

“Not at all,” Porthos confirms from his position in front of the hearth. His grin is wide and indecent, and Athos can feel it on his skin like a physical touch. “Get on with the kissin’ – get it out of your system.”

“Mhm, that might take a while,” Aramis murmurs, and latches on to Athos’ neck for a brief moment, “that might take forever.”

Athos needs to close his eyes at the sensation – at the feeling of Aramis’ lips so very close to that one scar – and his hand moves up to Aramis’ neck as if of its own accord, holds him still, keeps him close, “Aramis.”

“Yes, of course,” Aramis murmurs, and then he is kissing him there, infinitely tender, lips slightly parted, and Athos’ knees very nearly give in.

Every nerve-ending in his body seems to spark to life all at once; and when Aramis exhales right over the scar, when he opens his lips a little wider and allows his tongue to brush over it, Athos needs to hold on to him with both hands, very nearly sinking to the ground.

He must make a sound – he cannot be certain – for Aramis stops suddenly, pants against his neck, frozen in all movement. “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” Athos breathes out. His voice is almost gone, has seemingly followed his mind into that state of hazy pleasure that does not allow for clear thoughts, “yes, yes it is, Aramis – please do not stop.”

This time Aramis is the one to make a sound, weak and helpless, and then he presses his mouth to Athos’ neck, drags his teeth over the scar, ever so lightly, and stars explode in Athos’ veins.

He moans and claws his fingers into Aramis’ jacket, wants him closer, wants more of that tingling sensation chasing through his body. “Aramis …”

Aramis groans, puts both hands on Athos’ hips and pulls him in, grabs his ass. He holds Athos while he bites and licks over the scar, while he kisses it, again and again, until Athos’ whole body is singing with light, and he does not feel his feet anymore.

“You two need to get into bed right now.”

Porthos’ voice sounds so suddenly that it startles a gasp out of Athos, and he realises that the fire is lit in the hearth, that Porthos has stripped down to his smallclothes and is standing beside the bed, waiting for them.

He grins when he sees that he has caught Athos’ attention. “You’re close to fallin’ over, aren’t you love?”

Aramis hums and kisses Athos’ neck, beside the scar this time. His hands are still on Athos’ ass, squeezing gently now and again, and when he looks up to meet Athos’ gaze, his cheeks are flushed and his hair is tousled.

Athos lifts one hand to brush it behind his ear, and Aramis smiles at the gesture and leans into Athos’ touch, closes his eyes, “Did I do good?”

“Very,” Athos whispers, and then he looks back over at Porthos, smiles at him. “Help me get him undressed?”

Porthos’ grin is instant, flashes white in the dim light of the room. “With pleasure.”

He moves towards them and behind Aramis, leans down to brush a kiss to Aramis’ neck, and is rewarded with a content sigh. “You want us to take care of you tonight, kitten?”

Aramis’ lashes flutter open and he looks at Athos with a question in his eyes, tilts his head to the side – allows Porthos better access to his neck by doing so.

“Do you want that?” Athos echoes and brushes his thumb over Aramis’ cheek.

“I … I want us to take care of each other,” Aramis replies, earning a moment of stunned silence.

Then Porthos chuckles, and looks at Athos over Aramis’ shoulder. “I like that.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees softly, “I do too.”

Aramis smiles at him, looks at Athos through his lashes, tempting and seductive. “I’m not completely useless, am I?”

“You never were,” Athos tells him fondly, and leans in for another kiss.

Aramis hums against his lips in satisfaction, grabs Athos’ ass more firmly, and Porthos makes an amused noise behind him, pulls the jacket off his shoulders and puts it away. “Insatiable, both of you.”

“Mmm, you like it,” Aramis murmurs against Athos’ lips, and Porthos grunts.

“’Course I do. I love it. You’re marvellous when you get all greedy with each other.”

He returns to stand behind Aramis once more, and Athos smiles when Aramis lets go of his ass in favour of unbuttoning his jacket. He feels the ghost of warmth from Aramis’ deft fingers through the worn leather, and loosens the laces of Aramis’ trousers in return. “Are you saying we have no self-control when it comes to this?”

“That’s precisely what I’m sayin’,” Porthos chuckles, and reaches around Aramis to put his hands on Athos’ hips and pull him in, “all you need is a little push and you’re off.”

Athos can hardly dispute that fact with the way arousal flares up in his veins at the sudden pressure against his groin. He bites his lip and pushes his hips forward, and shivers at the helpless gasp falling over Aramis’ lips.

“See?” Porthos murmurs into Aramis’ neck, sounding intolerably smug. “Greedy. Both of you.”

“God, I love you,” Aramis pants out, and Athos watches him with a heated stare as he pushes his head back and lets it drop onto Porthos’ shoulder, leans into him with his whole weight. “You’re so much better at this than I ever was.”

“But I have you to work with,” Porthos grins, “don’t you forget that.”

He is still holding on to Athos’ hips, is still pulling his groin flush against Aramis’, and it feels perfectly natural for Athos to lean forward and press a kiss to Aramis’ neck – to let his mouth glide lower and brush his lips to the hollow of his throat, taste Aramis’ rapid breath with his tongue.

Aramis moans and rubs up against him, half hard already, just like Athos himself, and Athos can only imagine how Aramis feels, trapped between them, with Porthos at his back … with all that strength holding him upright.

“I want you so much,” he hears Aramis whisper, and when Athos looks at him there is a longing on Aramis’ face that looks different than the one Athos has gotten used to.

“You can have me,” he replies immediately, “I am yours.”

Aramis’ chest rises and falls under a number of hasty breaths, and he is smiling at Athos – smiling at him so very brightly that it _hurts_. “You are?”

“Always,” Athos promises him, and a noise like that of a wounded animal escapes Aramis’ throat.

He straightens with a jerk, and his hands seem to fly over the leather covering Athos’ body, take his jacket off him with as much haste as precision, and push him towards the bed accompanied by the sound of Porthos’ satisfied chuckles.

Athos finds himself on his back on the bed with a suddenness that severely upsets his self-control, and he barely waits for Aramis to rid him of his boots and cast off his own before he pulls Aramis on top of him and between his spread legs, remaining trousers be damned.

He finds it incomprehensible – inexcusable even – that he has never had Aramis inside him before this day – that he never asked, never begged Aramis to take him when there are few things in his life he has wanted even half as much.

The idea alone suffices to set his very core aflame, and Athos allows the flame to rise up and consume him, gives himself to it gladly. Aramis will take such good care of him … he always does.

Athos’ hand reaches out and grabs the rosary dangling between the open folds of Aramis’ shirt, and Aramis gasps. Athos watches his eyes glaze over while he pulls Aramis down by it, and he licks his lips, pulls a little harder.

Aramis allows Athos to use the rosary like a leash, bows his head willingly for a biting kiss, and Athos’ whole body arches off the bed and into that of Aramis on top of him when their lips connect and their tongues meet.

“I am yours,” he murmurs in-between kisses, wraps his legs around Aramis’ hips and rubs up against him, “I’m all yours.”

All Aramis says in return is his name, lets it fall over his lips like a prayer, as though it was the name of a saint instead of a sinner.

It only makes Athos kiss him more fervently, until he feels the bed dip beside him and opens his eyes – remembers Porthos with something very close to guilt.

“Don’t stop on my accord,” Porthos whispers to him, “I’m good with watchin’ you.”

“I want you behind me,” Athos hears himself say, and his eyes fly up to Porthos’ face, not so much pleading as suggesting. “I … I want you to hold me open for him.”

Porthos blinks at him, one, two, three times, and then a slow grin starts to spread over his face. “Aren’t you full of good ideas today.” He turns his head to look at Aramis, and Athos does the same, finds that Aramis is staring at him. “You alright with that idea, kitten?” Porthos asks in a low voice, and Aramis nods, dumbstruck, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes are all black.

He licks his kiss-bitten lips, rubs his growing arousal against Athos’. “Yes … yes I am.”

“Then I suggest we all get naked, yeah?” Porthos murmurs, still grinning. “Would make everythin’ a little easier.”

He promptly gets up and pulls his shirt over his head with a smooth grace that travels over his shoulders like gold in the firelight … takes a moment to pick the shirt up off the floor before he gets out of his smallclothes; and then Porthos is indeed naked, and gloriously so.

“You need my help?” he asks, when neither Athos nor Aramis move, when all they do is stare at him, unable to stop moving against each other.

“I am going to go mad between the two of you,” Aramis whispers, sounding awed and content. He leans in to kiss Athos again, sloppy and wet, and then he gets up, moves out from between Athos’ legs and strips out of his clothing with such haste that Athos fears for the seams of his linen.

But once he is naked, Aramis’ skin looks just as inviting as Porthos’ in the firelight, and when he gazes down at Athos, he does so out of soft black eyes that transport far too much emotion, “I am going to go mad, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think you will,” Porthos agrees, and lifts his hand to stroke it over Aramis’ naked back, lets it rest just above the swell of his ass. “Come on, love – you promised he could have you.”

“Yes,” Athos says, looking up at them from the bed. His throat constricts for a moment, makes it impossible to breathe while he takes them in, standing side by side, “yes, I made a promise.”

Still he does not move, drinks them in with wide, hungry eyes – and Aramis starts to look nervous. “You … you don’t have to, I just thought –“

That gets Athos off the bed and into his arms quickly enough, and he kisses him, kisses all doubt and insecurity right off his lips. “You have no idea how much I want you, do you?”

“You could show me?” Aramis suggest with a bashful little grin, comfortable again at once.

He looks at Athos from underneath his lashes, and Athos feels helpless affection bubble up his chest. “I will.”

He undresses, efficient and without further delay, and waits for Porthos to sit on the bed so he can move between his legs and lean against him.

Once he is in position Athos has to close his eyes for a moment; for he will never get used to the sensation of Porthos’ naked chest against his back – at least not in a way so it does not result in immediate bliss; and when Porthos puts his arms around him and embraces him from behind, Athos feels ready to melt into him and be done with the rest of the world and everything that is not the three of them together like this.

“Come here,” Athos murmurs when Aramis remains standing beside the bed for longer than he deems acceptable, “I want you closer.”

He is almost fully hard by now, as much from Porthos’ proximity as from anticipation, and when Porthos strokes his rough palms over his chest and belly, Athos’ cock twitches in reaction, sends a bolt of heat through him.

Aramis obeys instantly, comes to kneel between Athos’ spread legs, and leans in for a kiss. “I have mentioned that you look devastatingly gorgeous together, haven’t I?”

“Not in these words,” Porthos says from behind Athos, spreads his fingers wide over Athos’ stomach, “You were obviously lyin’ when you told me you weren’t good with ‘em.”

“Well, I have my moments,” Aramis murmurs as he looks at Athos from under hooded lids. “How do you want me?”

“Just the way you are,” Athos drawls with a fond smile, and enjoys the resulting flush spreading over Aramis’ face and chest.

“You … you want me to open you up?” Aramis asks, and Athos leans further back into Porthos, looks at Aramis from beneath his lashes so he can be on the receiving end of that tactic for once.

“That is what you bought the oil for – is it not?”

Aramis bites his lip, failing in his attempt to hide a grin that is as bashful as it is charming. “I bought that oil so Porthos could open you up – imagined him doing that almost every night after I’d given it to you.”

It amazes Athos how he can make that simple statement sound so filthy, how Aramis is able to send a shiver of goose bumps up and down his back with only a few words.

“You want to watch me do it now?” Porthos asks, only adding to Athos’ arousal, “Or’d you rather do it yourself?”

“I want to do it,” Aramis says, and he looks so steady suddenly, so calm and collected that it sends another thrill down Athos’ spine, “if you don’t mind.”

“You know I do not,” Athos replies, and his voice sounds surprisingly soft – neither breathless nor overwhelmed.

He wants this.

He wants it so much.

He sighs when Porthos pulls him closer, closes his eyes when Porthos brushes a kiss to his temple and speaks. “Will you just get goin’ – all this talkin’ about it is drivin’ me to distraction.” He moves his hands, strokes them over Athos’ belly and lower; he lets his palms glide over Athos’ thighs and puts his hands underneath Athos’ knees, pulls his legs further apart. “Get the oil, Aramis, will ya?”

Athos takes a deep breath and lifts his lashes to find Aramis staring, wide-eyed. Aramis remains frozen in place, unmoving, but only for a moment – then he moves, hasty but with enough grace that Athos’ eyes stay fixed on him.

He watches Aramis get off the bed and retrieve the oil – feels Porthos chuckle against his back when Aramis is back within a matter of heartbeats. “Needed encouragement, eh?”

He strokes his hands over Athos’ thighs, up and down again, and grips, lifts Athos’ legs, just a little, lets him get used to the feeling of being held like this. “You ready, love?”

“Yes,” Athos says quietly, and his eyes never leave Aramis’ face, take in every fleeting expression, “I am ready.”

So Porthos applies more strength, lifts Athos’ legs until his knees touch his chest and he is as exposed as he ever was. “This alright for you?”

“Yes,” Athos gets out, together with Aramis, and they both sound breathless already.

Athos’ heart beats hard inside his chest, rushes his blood through his body fast enough to make him dizzy.

The naked hunger so clearly visible in Aramis’ eyes does nothing to calm him down and neither does the tone of his voice when he speaks. “You look delicious like this.”

“If you don’t use that oil soon, I’m gonna do it myself,” Porthos threatens with a grunt, and Aramis nearly fumbles the bottle in his haste to get it open.

Athos feels the slightest vibrations against his back as Porthos makes a valiant effort to hide his laughter, and turns his face to the side to press his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder. “Empty threats?”

“Oh, I’d fill you up nice and good,” Porthos replies in a husky voice.

Aramis makes a strangled sound, and Athos watches his cock twitch against his belly. “Will you be quiet?”

“I don’t think I will, no,” Porthos replies, sounding smug, and presses a kiss to the top of Athos’ head. “Look, love, he’s makin’ progress.”

Athos nods, watches how Aramis coats his fingers in the fragrant oil, and the smell alone sends a hot shiver down his back. He squirms against Porthos, spreads his legs a little wider, cannot stop staring at Aramis’ hands.

They are good hands, always have been … steady and beautiful.

They will feel so good inside him.

And when the fingertips of Aramis’ left hand press against his entrance, when Aramis pushes one finger inside, slippery with oil, Athos’ lips part to let out a helpless moan.

He can no longer consider this an act of depravity, not when it feels so good – not when it makes him feel as though he is finally whole, as though all his broken edges have finally smoothed over and reconnected into something he is no longer ashamed of.

Porthos and Aramis are the ones who put him together, again and again – they are the ones who know all his pieces, who do not mind holding them in their hands.

It feels so good with them.

Aramis stops moving, gazes at Athos with adoring eyes, and Athos realizes that he has said it out loud. “It does,” he assures Aramis with a trembling smile, so aroused that it burns through him like molten lava, “it feels so very good with you.”

Aramis looks at him, pushes his finger deeper inside, crooks and turns and twists it until Athos cries out and leaves smears of pre-come on his belly. “Did that feel good too?” he whispers, and all Athos can do is nod.

“Good,” Aramis croons, and adds another finger, makes Athos moan without restraint, keeps hitting that spot over and over and over again while he opens Athos up.

It does not take all that long until Athos has no strength left, none at all – until he is little more than a puppet propped up against Porthos, held open and ready for Aramis to do with him as he pleases.

“Come on now, kitten,” Porthos murmurs when Athos can barely hold his eyes open anymore, “you’ve stirred him up enough.”

Aramis stills the movement of his fingers then, and Athos whines, is entirely unable not to.

“He’s just so beautiful like this,” Aramis whispers, and Athos feels Porthos chuckle behind him.

“Yeah, I know – but imagine how much better it gets once you’re inside him.” He lifts Athos higher, spreads his legs wider and holds him ready. “Come on.”

Aramis bites his lip and pulls his fingers out of Athos, and it feels strange, the sudden emptiness, strange and unpleasant.

Athos whines again, and finds his voice. “Aramis.”

Aramis shushes him with a soothing noise and leans forward to brush a kiss to Athos’ lips. “Yes, darling, I’m as good as inside you.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth Aramis seems to freeze for a moment, looks at Athos as though he did not mean to say that at all.

Athos makes a grab for the rosary hanging around Aramis’ neck, watches Aramis’ eyes glaze over yet again when he touches it, “Aramis.”

“You heard him, love,” Porthos says in a soothing voice, “He’s as good as inside you.”

Athos does not let go of the rosary despite Porthos’ words, but holds on to it, holds Aramis close while he watches him slick himself up.

“You want me to stay where I am, love?” Porthos asks, and he lowers Athos’ legs for a moment, lets him stretch out a little, “Or do you wanna lie down for this?”

“I want to stay like this,” Athos says, and he barely recognizes his own voice, sounds drunk with lust, but that does not change the facts, “I – I want you to hold me.”

“Then I will,” Porthos promises, and strokes his palms over Athos’ thighs, “I’ll hold you nice and ready for Aramis, yeah?”

“Yes, I want that.” Athos turns his head to press a kiss to Porthos’ shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I’m … ready,” he hears Aramis say, quiet but steady, and Athos turns his head to look at him again.

“As am I.”

Aramis smiles, waits for Porthos to lift Athos’ legs again, to spread him open and hold him safe, and then he moves – moves as close as he possibly can. He bites his lower lip and lines himself up, and Athos cannot help but stare at the tip of Aramis’ cock peeking out between oil-slick fingers.

His whole body burns with the need to have Aramis inside.

“Finally,” Porthos mutters into Athos’ hair, and a grin spreads over Athos’ face, finds an answering one on Aramis’ features.

They keep smiling at each other, keep looking at each other while Aramis pushes inside.

Both of them are moaning, and they cling to one another while Aramis moves steadily closer. He claims Athos so very slowly that Athos starts pulling on the rosary again, until Aramis is all the way inside, and his balls are resting against Athos’ ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehe, Happy New Year!


	13. Chapter 13

It feels so good, having Aramis inside.

With Porthos at his back, holding him open, holding him _safe_ , Athos has never felt better. He feels weightless with Porthos behind him, and when Aramis starts to move, Athos’ whole world shrinks down to that sensation of completion he derives from being between them.

He never lets go of Aramis’ rosary, holds it between his fingers, watches Aramis eyes go darker with each little tug.

Aramis moves slowly, is leaning over Athos and holding on to Porthos’ shoulders, and he never takes his eyes off Athos’ face, keeps _smiling_ at him.

It is a genuine smile, so soft and warm that Athos aches with it. He lifts his face, eager and inviting, pulls on the rosary yet again, and Aramis kisses him without a second’s hesitation.

Athos opens up for him, gives Aramis everything he has, and Aramis _takes_ it – as though he wants all of it, has never wanted anything half as much.

The movement of Aramis’ hips turns faster after a while, faster and sharper. His mouth muffles the moans spilling over Athos’ lips as he fucks into him with breathless devotion, offers some helpless gasps and moans of his own.

Porthos is quiet behind him, is taking deep, regular breaths right by Athos’ ear, and his arousal presses into Athos’ lower back, only adds to the tingling sensation chasing through his blood.

He is losing himself between his lovers, does not get enough of Aramis pushing into him, of the way Porthos’ fingers press into his skin, and when Aramis finally releases his mouth, Athos does not even try to hold back and stifle his moans.

He lets his head drop back and against Porthos’ shoulder to look at Aramis – sees that he is smiling yet again. He lifts his free hand to touch that smile, while the other still holds on to the rosary, and he strokes his fingers over the corner of Aramis’ mouth.

Aramis turns his head to kiss his fingertips, and Porthos makes a pleased noise and kisses Athos’ temple. “He’s bein’ good to you, isn’t he, love?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, and pulls his knees higher up and against his chest, offers even more of himself to Aramis, “so very good.”

Aramis opens his mouth then, looks at Athos while he sucks his fingers into it, and _still_ he is smiling – just wicked enough to make Athos’ blood boil.

Athos moans again, has to close his eyes for a moment to keep a hold on the different sensations sending sparks of pleasure though his body. Aramis bites into his fingers, ever so carefully, and that only makes it worse, makes Athos’ cock twitch against his belly, brings him all too close to his release far too suddenly.

Athos groans, and Aramis’ name falls over his lips like a prayer – and now Aramis is the one to groan, makes a helpless noise of longing deep inside his throat.

When Athos opens his lids to look at him, Aramis is staring back, adoring and pleading – asking Athos without words for permission to let go and find his release.

“I want it,” Athos whispers, and he marvels at how smoothly the words come out, “just … just go ahead.”

He pulls his fingers out of Aramis’ mouth, and Aramis presses another kiss to their tips – leans in to press a kiss to Athos’ mouth. “I’m sorry, Athos … I need to …”

Athos smiles and kisses his cheek. “There is no need to sound so sad about it … we still get to take care of Porthos once we are done, do we not?”

“Mmm, I love you,” Aramis whispers in response, “do you think he would mind if I had you on my lap for once?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Porthos says softly, and then Athos finds himself being pushed forward by him – not so much away from Porthos’ chest as towards Aramis, who pulls him in with gentle strength, until Athos is sitting on Aramis’ lap.

He feels exposed, but not any more than he did before, and he can still feel Porthos’ heat behind him – can feel Aramis so deep inside of him that it takes his breath away.

Thus it is the change in position that makes Athos gasp, not any sensation of discomfort, and he allows his head to fall forward, hides his face against Aramis’ neck as he tries to get his bearings.

“Are you alright, darling?” Aramis asks in a concerned voice, and Athos shivers at the endearment, tenses and tightens around him.

“I am … I am good.” He puts his arms around Aramis’ shoulders, puts his legs around Aramis’ hips, holds on to him with his whole body, and Aramis makes a choked, half-broken sound at the back of his throat.

“Athos – Athos, you –“

“What’d you think would happen?” Porthos asks, his voice low and husky, and brushes a kiss to the base of Athos’ neck. “Come on, love – make him feel it, eh?”

Athos nods and starts to move, quite automatically, and Aramis groans and clings to him, meets the movement of Athos’ hips with little pushes of his own that flicker through Athos like sparks of gold.

Athos keeps his eyes closed and bites his lip, moves up and down, again and again, and it only gets better when Porthos grabs his waist and helps him – when he uses his strength to lift him almost all the way off Aramis’ cock to let him sink back down onto it; until it is so deep inside Athos that it drives him half-mad with arousal.

Aramis keeps gasping out his name as well as Porthos’, and they keep holding Athos between them, reduce him to moans and meaningless noises of bliss, while he keeps riding the edge of his release, always close but never falling.

Only when Porthos puts his mouth on the scar on Athos’ neck, when he scrapes his teeth over it and bites down ever so lightly does Athos finally fall.

Aramis follows him down, chokes out his name one last time and comes, and Athos clings to Aramis so hard that the rosary’s beads press into both their skins and mark them with the same pattern, leave them with the same brand.

Athos leans his forehead against Aramis’ while his body twitches in the aftershocks of his climax, enjoys the little puffs of warm air Aramis pants against his mouth.

They remain like that for a while, and Porthos lets them, strokes his hands over Athos’ waist in a wonderfully soothing rhythm.

“Mhm, Porthos, you bastard, pulled my hair,” Aramis murmurs eventually, and what begins as a vague grin pulling at the corners of Athos’ mouth soon turns into a chuckle.

He turns his head and tries to muffle it against Aramis’ shoulder, but to no avail, and his voice sounds rather broken when he speaks. “You enjoyed that, did you not?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, and covers every inch of Athos’ skin available to him in kisses, “yes, darling, I did.”

“Then he did well,” Athos concludes with another chuckle, and presses a kiss of his own to Aramis’ shoulder, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Porthos’ hands are still on his waist, are still stroking him, and Athos takes a deep breath and carefully leans back until he comes to rest against Porthos’ chest. “You know just what we like, do you not?”

“I’ve been payin’ attention,” Porthos agrees lazily, and puts his arms around Athos, strokes his hands over his belly, covered in Athos’ release. “You feelin’ good?”

“You know we are, you big menace,” Aramis replies softly – and reaches out his hand to take Porthos’ right into it. “I expect you want us to pay you back now?”

“What did I tell you about that?” Porthos grunts in an amused voice and strokes his thumb over the back of Aramis’ hand. “Eh? What did I tell you?”

“Well I _feel_ like paying you back, so you don’t get a say in it,” Aramis replies with a wink. “So if you would use all that strength of yours to lift Athos off my cock so I can get at yours, I would really appreciate it.”

“That depends on whether he is ready to get off,” Porthos counters in a tone that is so very obviously theatrical that it makes Athos laugh again.

“I am ready,” he gets out between half-repressed huffs of air, “by all means, let him at your cock.”

“Mhm, I like it when you talk like that,” Aramis murmurs and leans in for a kiss – sloppy and relaxed.

Athos kisses him back with closed eyes and starlight in his chest, and combs his fingers through Aramis’ hair, making him very nearly purr.

They only stop kissing when Porthos follows Aramis’ request and lifts Athos up, and Athos pulls back with a gasp at the sensation of Aramis’ release leaking out of him.

“You alright, love?” Porthos asks when he lowers him onto the mattress, and Athos nods, takes a few deep breaths to get used to it.

“I had … I had forgotten how it feels.”

“Heh, that just means we’re not doin’ it often enough,” Porthos quips and kisses Athos’ cheek, “You want me to clean you up?”

“Let me,” Aramis requests with marked enthusiasm, and gets off the bed with a speed that seems rather unwarranted to Athos’ sluggish mind.

He feels Porthos chuckle behind him and closes his eyes, relaxes into the sensation. “Somehow we always make you wait, do we not?”

“Eh, I don’t mind,” Porthos whispers and kisses the shell of his ear. “Watchin’ you two is a rare privilege.”

Athos turns around at that, pushes into Porthos’ arms and presses his face into the crook of his neck. “Still … it does not seem right to me.”

“No?” Porthos murmurs in an amused voice, “And what do you propose instead? That we make Aramis wait? Test all that patience he doesn’t have?” He strokes his hands over Athos’ back and pulls him closer, pulls him onto his lap, legs to one side. “I don’t mind waitin’ my turn, love.”

His hard cock presses against Athos’ thigh, and Athos looks down quite automatically, and reaches out to close his hand around it. “You enjoy the anticipation?”

“You could say that,” Porthos murmurs in a rough voice, and does not move an inch.

Aramis returns to the bed at that point, with a bowl of water and a rough cloth, and sets his right knee on the edge of the mattress. “I fear the water is rather cold.” He dunks the cloth into the bowl and then wrings it out until his hands are red and there is barely any moisture left. Only then does he lift it to Athos’ stomach.

The fabric feels warm enough on Athos’ skin, and he closes his eyes and leans back into Porthos’ arm. He still feels pleasantly adrift in the aftermath of his orgasm, warm and safe between Porthos and Aramis, and he moves willingly when Aramis lays a hand on his thigh, silently asking for permission to turn him around.

Porthos helps him move, as he always does, until Athos sits facing him, his legs spread wide over Porthos’ lap.

“Hello, love,” Porthos murmurs with a smile so sweet it makes Athos ache, and he cranes his neck to kiss Porthos – gasps in surprise when Aramis puts the cloth between his legs and wipes away the release leaking out of his hole.

“Sorry,” Aramis hisses behind him – takes the cloth away and presses his hand to Athos’ skin instead, warm and callused, “Too cold?”

“No, you – nh –“ Athos bites his lip and pushes back into Aramis’ touch, feels new sparks of arousal light up inside his body, “I am … I am merely …”

“He’s all sensitive,” Porthos purrs over his shoulder, pushes his hips forward and rubs his hard cock against Athos’ groin, “be gentle with ‘im, kitten.”

“I’ll try my best,” Aramis replies with an audible smile and presses a kiss to Athos’ shoulder, pulls back his hand and resumes cleaning him up.

Athos feels ready to melt by the time Aramis is finished, and he merely grumbles a little when Porthos lifts him off his lap and stretches him out beside him.

“Heh, look at ‘im,” Porthos murmurs to a madly grinning Aramis, who strokes his hand through Athos’ hair and covers him with a blanket.

“I already am.” Athos blinks one eye open just in time to witness Aramis aiming a greedy stare at Porthos’ cock. “Now let me at you.”

Porthos lifts both hands, signalling surrender, “I’m not stoppin’ you.”

Athos smiles sleepily when Aramis all but falls into Porthos in reaction to this, and he makes a valiant effort to stay awake and watch them.

What he remembers afterward – apart from the visions etching themselves into his mind, supplying him with enough heat to last him for weeks – is a sense of belonging so strong that he thinks it will soon outgrow his body.

 

“You’re late,” d’Artagnan greets Athos and Porthos at the garrison the next morning. He is warming his hands over one of the braziers and blinks in confusion when he realizes that it is only the two of them. “What did you do with Aramis?”

“He asked us to go ahead and get his horse ready for him,” Porthos replies in a low growl, “was mighty chipper, too ... and rather too secretive for my liking when we asked him where he was goin’.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees and looks up at the still-dark sky. “I hope he is not doing anything … idiotic.”

“Eh, he wouldn’t,” Porthos grunts and plants his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to pull the boy with him towards the stables, “for one he doesn’t have the time, and then he really likes to keep you happy.”

“There is that,” Athos admits with a small smile, and clears his throat when he finds d’Artagnan staring at him. “As long as he makes it here in time for sunrise, I will allow him his secrets.”

Porthos grins and winks at him. “Mighty generous of you.”

Athos holds back an answer, just in case d’Artagnan is going to stare at him again, and greets his horse, which welcomes him with a grumble and rubs its muzzle over Athos’ chest.

“Look at ‘im – he’s missed you,” Porthos comments from Athos’ right, and nearly receives a nose-bump from his own horse. “… Unlike this menace over here.”

“He likes you well enough,” d’Artagnan claims from the other end of the stable, “you just like to pretend he doesn’t.”

They lead their horses as well as Aramis’ out into the yard and get them ready for a day out in the cold. By the time the last saddle girth is tightened, Aramis walks in through the gates.

“Your timing is perfect,” Athos comments dryly, “have you been waiting behind the doors?”

Aramis grins at him and makes a show of looking over his horse. “Everything appears to be in order,” he discovers at length, and promptly hoists himself up into the saddle.

D’Artagnan makes an affronted noise and throws an apple at his head, which he deftly catches. “Thank you, my dearest friend.”

He takes a bite out of the apple, munches happily, and Porthos mounts his own horse, leans forward with a grunt to pat its neck. “’M sorry I called you a menace. That title goes to him, clearly.”

The horse harrumphs and tosses its head, and Athos smirks. “What an intelligent animal.”

He shares a quick grin with Porthos, and then looks over and up at Aramis. “You finished your business to your satisfaction?”

Aramis clears his throat and sobers dramatically. “That still remains to be seen.”

Not quite the answer Athos expected, but he does not press the matter, and swings himself up into the saddle instead. “Are we ready then?”

Aramis refrains from making the expected comment about his preference to stay somewhere warm, possibly a bed, and Athos shares another glance with Porthos, which earns him a shrug.

Porthos does not appear to be worried, merely mildly amused, so Athos smiles at him, and secures his hat more firmly on his head before he directs his horse out of the garrison and towards the city gates.

They ride in silence for the most part, neckerchiefs drawn over their mouths and noses against the cold, and reach the river just when the first light of morning turns the sky into an uncomfortable grey.

The horses are noticeably fresh, have been in the stable for too long, but the ground is too cold and hard for a proper gallop, and the danger of broken legs too great, so Athos keeps a tight rein on his animal.

He advises d’Artagnan and Aramis to take the lead, for they have the sharpest eyes and should find a likely spot to dock on the riverbank sooner than Athos and Porthos.

The sky turns marginally brighter as the sun climbs a little higher over the horizon, but their silent ride is frustrating work, and Athos is soon chilled to the bone.

They take a break after about three hours of riding, still without any sign of the smugglers’ secret harbour, and light a sad little fire far enough from the river bank and the road so as not to attract unwanted attention.

Aramis more or less falls off his horse and into Porthos’ arms as soon as they stop, and presses his cold nose into Porthos’ neckerchief. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Porthos replies quietly, and pulls Aramis closer towards him.

Athos and d’Artagnan are quick to light that fire, pull Aramis down in front of it, and offer him as much warmth as is possible under the circumstances.

“I feel almost bad for suggesting the smugglers might have come into the city by this way,” the boy whispers into Athos’ ear, and Athos smiles quite involuntarily.

“Don’t. It was a good idea. It is not your fault that Aramis is so very –“ he pauses, makes sure Aramis is listening, and continues, “delicate.”

Aramis smiles then, and Athos can see it, even though most of Aramis’ face is covered by his scarf.

He can see Aramis’ eyes, and that will always be enough.

“At least I do not complain about the heat in summer,” Aramis states, muffled by his scarf. “Only Porthos does that.”

“Yeah, you just get naked,” Porthos shoots back, “I don’t get away with that.”

Aramis promptly clings to him with both hands. “You would start a riot!”

Porthos’ ears are already red from the cold, so Athos cannot tell whether he is blushing or not, but he watches Porthos lower his head until his chin very nearly touches his chest, and Porthos’ voice is very rough when he replies, “Rubbish!”

Aramis looks at Athos with a fire in his eyes that is mildly disconcerting. “Back me up on this.”

Athos allows a little smirk to creep into his expression. “I do not think he can take both of us at once.”

D’Artagnan makes a little noise at that point, emits a sound not unlike that of a trapped mouse, and clears his throat in a rather violent manner afterwards. “You three are impossible, really.”

Athos would blush, if he was not so busy containing a strangely victorious glee. “I protest, I have no idea what you mean.”

D’Artagnan scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

Porthos throws his arms around him. “See what I have to endure? They’re ‘orrible, both of them.”

“You walked into that with both eyes wide open, and I don’t pity you even a little bit,” d’Artagan grins at him, and Porthos sighs.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I won’t pretend that I’m regrettin’ it, ‘cause I’m not.”

He sounds entirely too fond, _too earnest_ , and it is that quality to his voice that keeps Athos warm for the rest of their ride, until the sun goes down and forces them to return to Paris without any development in their mission besides that of rising frustration.

 

“There is not one warm spot left on my body!” Aramis announces in a tragic tone when they enter his lodgings. “I shall certainly perish in the night!”

“Yeah, for one because I’ll strangle you if you don’t shut up,” Porthos grumbles and kicks the door shut.

Aramis and Athos exchange a brief look at that, one of amusement mingled with concern, and Athos is the one to ask the obvious question. “You are cold as well?”

“’Course I am!” Porthos exclaims, and the way he peels himself out of his jacket certainly looks somewhat stiff. “That blasted wind has gotten right into my clothes!”

He winces when he lifts his right arm to hang up his jacket, and Athos’ eyes immediately drop down to his shoulder. “Is that axe-wound bothering you?”

The question brings Aramis behind Porthos in the blink of an eye, and he lifts Porthos’ shirt with business-like haste. “Does it feel hot?”

“Nah, it just hurts,” Porthos says with another wince, and pulls away when Aramis touches the scar. “Went a little deeper than usual, that one.”

“It certainly did,” Athos says in a toneless voice, remembering that horrible day at La Fère. “Let us see.”

“There’s really no need,” Porthos grunts and moves out of Aramis’ reach to drop to his knees in front of the hearth. “It’ll probably stop hurtin’ once it gets warm.”

“Possible,” Athos replies quietly. “Will you please rest until it does and let someone else light a fire? Get up.”

Porthos turns his head to look at Athos over his shoulder, and there is a hint of thunder in his gaze. “Is that an order?”

“Of course it is,” Athos drawls very softly. “And if you resist I shall most certainly use force to make you listen.”

Porthos gets up then, in one smooth motion, turns his body around, and lifts his chin, invitingly. “Come on then, try it.”

Athos holds his gaze as he steps closer towards him, and once he is close enough he lifts his chin as well – stretches and presses a kiss to Porthos’ throat. “You are a horrible patient, my friend.”

Porthos relaxes within an instant, lets his forehead drop onto Athos’ shoulder and sighs, “Sorry.”

Athos and Aramis share another look over his shoulder, too fond for words, and then Aramis is the one to go to his knees in front of the hearth – busies himself with lighting a fire while Athos remains standing still, so close to Porthos that he can feel the tension coming off his body in waves.

“How much does it hurt?” he asks in a carefully neutral voice, and Porthos makes a dismissive sound into the leather of Athos’ uniform.

“I’ll live.”

Athos lifts one brow. “That bad, is it?”

Porthos stays notably silent.

“I think I have an ointment that should help with the pain,” Aramis remarks from the floor. “I shall look for it in a moment.”

“That’s not necessary,” Porthos growls out – but he does not move, stays where he is and sighs again when Athos lifts his hand to his neck to comb his fingers through Porthos’ curls.

“I shall look for it all the same,” Aramis replies, his voice as bright as it is stubborn.

Porthos moves ever so slightly then, as though he wants to pull back and argue, and Athos turns his head to kiss the shell of Porthos’ ear. “Just let him.”

Again Porthos relaxes, sighs and stays put. “I just don’t want to bother you with this.”

“Well, we do not want you to hurt,” Athos says softly. “And there is two of us and only one of you, so we win.”

“That sounds hardly fair,” Porthos grumbles, sounding glad about it nevertheless.

“You shall get accustomed,” Athos murmurs, and puts a gentle hand on Porthos’ neck to make him straighten up. “Let me help with your trousers and boots, yes?”

“I’m not an invalid,” is the expected reaction, and Athos fights very hard to hold back an answering grin.

“No, you are obstinate and _difficult_ ,” he agrees smoothly. “You do not usually object to being helped out of your clothes.”

Porthos pouts at him. “That’s different – that’s _fun_.”

Athos rewards him with an unimpressed expression. “I can make it fun if you insist.”

That earns him a little grin and Porthos shakes his head – just to frown again, ever so slightly. “Nah, I don’t wanna put you to the trouble.”

A spike of real concern flares up inside Athos’ chest, because that does not sound like inappropriate reserve to be cared for anymore. That sounds as though the pain in Porthos’ shoulder is indeed too strong to allow for pleasure.

Aramis is still busy with preparing a fire, so Athos gently pushes Porthos towards the bed, and makes him sit down. “When did it start to hurt?”

“Started this mornin’ really, but just so I would notice a little bit?” Porthos replies, and reluctantly allows Athos to remove his boots. “It only began to bother me when we turned the horses home.”

“The wind was at our back,” Aramis comments and gets back up on his feet as a fire starts crackling in the hearth. “That probably accounts for it. You should have said something.”

“To accomplish what?” Porthos growls – and promptly loses most of his surly expression when Athos unlaces his trousers. “I can really do that myself.”

“I thought you were busy arguing,” Athos replies in a mild voice. “By all means, do it yourself.”

Still, when Porthos reaches down, Athos does not pull back his hands; he remains crouched in front of his friend, studies his face for signs of pain, and finds too many of them for comfort.

He moves back to give Porthos room when he stands up, but that is all he is willing to allow. As soon as Porthos stands, Athos helps him out of his trousers, as good as forbids him to bend down, and removes the offending fabric with Aramis’ ready assistance.

Getting Porthos out of his shirt proves far more difficult, for every movement of his arm seems to hurt him, even if Porthos is far too stubborn to admit it.

They finally manage, and when Athos pushes Porthos back down onto the edge of the bed, Porthos gives in readily, and closes his eyes as soon as he is sitting.

“Get that ointment,” Athos orders Aramis in a worried voice, and Porthos blinks one eye open to look at him.

“’M fine. There’s no need to sound so urgent.”

He manages a smile that is very nearly convincing, and Athos feels a little better. “Your assessment of your own wounds is far too unreliable, my friend.”

The resulting pout is far too endearing for Athos’ peace of mind, and he finally takes off his own jacket and boots, puts his clothes away and returns to the bed just when Aramis does the same with a little earthenware jar. “Is that it?”

Aramis nods, his gaze already fixed on Porthos, and tilts his head. “You better lie down on your stomach for this.”

“Why?” Porthos asks, and he sounds so suspicious that it makes Aramis grin.

“To render you completely helpless of course – why do you _think_ , you fool?”

Porthos moves then, far too slowly and carefully, and although he tries to hold himself back, in the end Athos does help him, his hands feeling almost cold against Porthos’ hot skin.

“Satisfied?” Porthos grunts into the mattress as soon as he is lying, and Aramis sighs in a theatrical manner and moves onto the bed to kneel over Porthos’ ass.

“Immensely.” He opens the jar, which releases a smell that Athos would not describe as pleasant.

“Eh, that stuff stinks,” Porthos says with an expression of disgust, half hidden by the bedding. “You really want to put that on me?”

“More than anything else,” Aramis confirms. “It’ll help with the pain, I promise.”

“I think I’d rather suffer,” Porthos mumbles mutinously, and Athos’ left brow jumps up into his hairline.

“No you would not.”

Aramis grins and dips his fingers into the jar, and without further ado he smears some of its contents over the paling scar on Porthos’ right shoulder, massages it in ever so tenderly. “There, you big child.”

Porthos lies perfectly still for a long moment, then he grunts. “It still hurts.”

Athos and Aramis share a look of fond exasperation.

“It’s not a magic potion – give it time!” Aramis exclaims in an impatient voice. “Just lie still and rest that shoulder.”

Porthos turns his head a little further to the left so he can look at Athos, and the expression on his face is one of almost comical helplessness. “But it’s not even all that late!”

“Do not worry,” Athos says in a calming voice, “Aramis and I will entertain you.”

Strangely enough, Porthos believes him at once.


	14. Chapter 14

“Go ahead then,” Porthos says in a lazy voice, “entertain me.”

He is lying in the middle of the bed, shirtless and barefoot, and the firelight plays over his naked back in a manner that kindles an almost obsessive urge to touch him in Athos. Instead of giving in he quirks a soft smile at Aramis, and inclines his head to the left. “Bring me a book, if you please.”

Aramis springs into action with marked enthusiasm, and he does not have to search for very long until he finds a collection of love-poems, its pages yellow with age. “How about this?”

It must be a present from an old lover, Athos thinks, but he nods and reaches out his hand. “It will do.”

Their fingers brush when Aramis gives him the book, and Athos cannot deny that he experiences a shiver of warmth at the touch.

It is rather wonderful, he muses, how his body has fallen into the habit of lighting up when it is touched, how it welcomes each caress and each kiss. It used to be so afraid, once upon a time, could not accept gentleness. It tensed under the lightest touch, was so weary of physical contact.

Now all that’s necessary is one glance to kindle a yearning inside Athos that can only be quenched by being held.

Aramis undresses to his undergarments, and Athos watches – watches him sit down on the bed and gently manoeuvre Porthos around until his head is in Aramis’ lap, and both of them are as comfortable as they could possibly be.

“We’re ready,” Aramis informs him then; an eager light is illuminating his eyes, and Athos remembers how they read to each other when they were alone on that farm, waiting for Porthos and d’Artagnan’s return.

“Is that a fact?” he asks in a smooth voice, trying to overcome the sudden wave of emotion washing over him. “Do you imagine I am going to read to you both?”

Aramis pouts at him. “I thought that was your intent?”

“He’s teasin’ you, kitten,” Porthos says soothingly, and turns his head on Aramis’ thigh until he can catch a glimpse of Athos’ face, “Isn’t that right?”

“I am,” Athos admits, still feeling shaken. He was such a fool, back then – did not realize what Aramis really meant to him, would never have dreamed that Aramis felt the same.

Porthos’ gaze turns sharp suddenly, and he moves and sits up, despite Aramis’ protest. “What’s the matter, love?”

Athos shakes his head to get rid of lingering guilt, and he moves closer to the bed, sits down on its edge, right knee pulled onto the mattress so he can look at both Porthos and Aramis. “You remember when I had that fever?”

“Course I do,” Porthos replies, visibly confused as to Athos’ meaning, “you had us really worried.”

Athos smiles a little at that, sad and a bit wistful. “Aramis and I read to each other then, too – while you were away.”

He looks into Aramis’ eyes, saying the words; Aramis looks back, and a slight flush rises into his cheeks. He is the one to break eye-contact, who bites his bottom lip and hangs his head. “Is it the memory of me acting like a fool that has dampened your spirit?”

“No,” Athos says softy. “It is the memory of you caring for me that has –“ he stops and reaches out his hand, takes Aramis’ into his, “I am so grateful for your presence in my life.”

They look at him as though his voice has frozen them into place for a long moment, and then they both move as one, pull him into their arms and hold him tight.

“This sudden inclination of yours to _talk_ is really somethin’ else, love,” Porthos tells him in a rough voice. Meanwhile Aramis pushes his face into the crook of Athos’ neck and nuzzles him, parts his lips and presses a kiss to Athos’ pulse.

Athos relaxes into their embrace, closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. Then he turns his head, kisses Porthos’ left temple. “Lie back down for me, yes?”

Porthos chuckles and slowly lets go of him. “But I’m feelin’ better already.”

“Do not try to pretend that it would be a hardship for you to put your head into Aramis’ lap,” Athos scolds him gently. “Because I will not believe you.”

The gleeful reaction to that statement comes with a beaming smile, “Heh, fair enough.”

Nevertheless Porthos waits until Aramis has pressed an urgent kiss to Athos’ mouth, waits until Aramis has told Athos that he loves him. Even then Porthos does not move immediately, but looks from one to the other with warmth in his eyes, indulgent and happy. “All ready then?”

“Yes,” Aramis says. He moves back into his original position, lets Porthos lie back down and puts a protective hand on his hurt shoulder. “Ready.”

So Athos opens the book and starts to read, one poem after the other. Whenever he pauses to steal a glance at Aramis and Porthos, they are both looking back at him, relaxed and smiling, and they do not interrupt him even once.

“I hope I am not boring you?” Athos stops to ask after the sixth poem, and Porthos mushes his cheek against Aramis’ thigh when he shakes his head. “Nah, you have a really good voice, love.”

It is physically impossible for Athos not to reach out and bury his fingers in Porthos’ curls for that answer, and when he looks at Aramis to get his opinion on the matter, he gets a wink. “You make me believe every single word.”

Athos lifts both brows at that. “Doubtful. Very doubtful.”

Aramis puts both of his hands over his heart and directs a wide-eyed stare of innocence at Athos, “You doubt me!”

“I doubt the honesty of these poems,” Athos replies dryly. “Is there even one poem in here that does not express the underlying desire to get whoever is listening out of their smallclothes?”

Aramis laughs and his eyes are brimming over with delight when he answers, “I do not think so, no … but Porthos and I are still dressed!”

“I _am_ gettin’ a little excited though,” Porthos claims with a broad grin, “it’s absolutely workin’ on me!”

“Stay dressed all the same,” Athos tells him with a fond little huff. “Remember that you need to rest that shoulder.”

“I wouldn’t have to be the one movin’,” Porthos shoots back, “but I’ll behave myself, don’t you worry. I like hearin’ you read poetry – and I didn’t have the privilege at that farm.”

“No, you did not,” Athos agrees while looking into Aramis’ eyes. He remembers that morning all too clearly, when Aramis led him out to the little bench beside the house, wrapped him in blankets, and sat at his feet while Athos recited for him.

He remembers the wind on his skin, remembers the ache in his chest because Porthos was not with them – remembers Aramis’ care and his warmth, and the sadness in his eyes.

The sadness is gone now, has been replaced by … by something else entirely, and when Athos leans in, Aramis meets him halfway for a kiss.

Athos puts the book to the side so he can bury both hands in Aramis’ hair, and they keep kissing for a long time – so long indeed that Porthos eventually voices complaint. “I can’t see properly lyin’ on my belly.”

He sounds earnestly indignant about this state of affairs, and Athos feels Aramis smile against his mouth before they break apart. “You don’t have to see everything, dearest Porthos.”

That earns him a pinch in the ass, and Aramis yelps, and starts to laugh. “What was that for?”

“For makin’ fun of me when I’m in no position to punish you properly,” Porthos growls, grinning peaceably, “Did I hurt your delicate little bottom?”

Athos smirks when he sees the myriad of possible answers to this question flick over Aramis’ face, and is in no way surprised by the one Aramis settles on. “Not the way I’d want you to.”

Porthos does not even stop to wonder at this proclamation, “Yeah, well – can’t put you properly over my knee with my shoulder hurtin’ like this, can I?”

Athos cannot be sure what it is that makes Aramis flush and squirm on the bed: Porthos’ tone of voice - which is as filthy as it is promising – or the fact that he has put his palm over the spot he just pinched and is gently rubbing it back and forth.

No matter what it is, the effect it has on Aramis is an intriguing sight.

Athos watches him intently, watches desire and helpless lust flicker over Aramis’ features, and it does something strange to Athos – the realization that Aramis _wants_ to be hurt, that he _wants_ Porthos to hit him.

Maybe this is how it is supposed to be; maybe Athos was supposed to want it with her too.

Maybe that was why it did not work even before everything fell apart.

Because Athos was wrong somehow, because he even failed at something as easy as being her slave.

She expected him to enjoy what she did, to be as eager for it as Aramis appears to be, and when he could not bring himself to find enjoyment in the pain, she punished him for it.

Athos is still not certain whether he deserved it or not.

For a precarious moment he worries that this kind of behaviour might be what Porthos has expected from him all along … He certainly does not seem surprised by Aramis’ predilection, does not seem appalled.

But then it is Porthos.

Porthos is rarely surprised by anything human nature presents him with, and even if he is, he does not judge.

If they want this, if Porthos wants to fulfil Aramis’ desire just as much as Aramis wants it to happen, Athos is not going to stop them. He will not stand in the way of Aramis’ needs.

With Porthos executing the punishment, it will be sufficiently different from what she did to Athos, of that Athos is absolutely certain.

Porthos will not hurt where no hurt is wanted.

So Athos takes a deep breath and reaches out for the discarded book. Just to have something to hold on to, to busy his fingers with.

“You’re awful quiet, love,” Porthos murmurs then, his voice so careful and gentle that Athos cannot doubt Porthos’ insight into his thoughts. “Aramis and I have been waitin’ for you to say somethin’ for a while now.”

Athos bites his lip and stares down at his hand – clutching the book until his knuckles turn white, and Aramis pries it gently from his fingers. “It … it was just an idea, Athos.”

He sounds guilty, and that is what makes Athos swallow his discomfort and look up at him. “You want it, do you not?”

Aramis flushes and nods, and Athos takes his hand. “Then you shall have it.” He looks down at Porthos. “Provided that Porthos does not mind?”

“I’ve threatened him with a proper spanking so many times over the years that it would make me look ridiculous not to own up to it now,” Porthos says slowly. “Are you sure you’re fine with it? I mean, you don’t have to watch, obviously.”

Aramis makes a little noise at that, looks so clearly distressed by the very idea of excluding Athos from anything Porthos and him might do together that it hurts Athos as much as it warms him. “You want me to watch?”

“I’d much rather not do it than … than force you to stand to the side and … and lock you out!” Aramis exclaims. “I don’t … I don’t want to –“

“It is alright,” Athos interrupts him gently. “I do not mind watching. Porthos will take care that you enjoy yourself, after all.”

Aramis smiles at him then, and gratefully squeezes his hand, “Yes, I think so too.”

The happy conviction in his voice helps fill up that strange, hollow emptiness inside Athos’ chest – helps him feel whole again.

“Not today though,” he says quietly, relieved that he still has time to prepare himself, “we would not want Porthos to overstrain himself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos mumbles peaceably, “I didn’t plan on doin’ that today anyway. I’ll keep nice and still, right where I am.”

“Good,” Aramis croons approvingly, and strokes his hand over Porthos’ hurting shoulder, “I wouldn’t have let you in any case.”

“You two are very intent on doctorin’ me, aren’t you?” Porthos grunts, and it makes Athos curiously happy that there is no trace of the old impatience in his voice – that he can admit that he is hurt, and allows them to care for him. “Spoilin’ me like a pair of hens with one chick.”

“You took that turn of phrase from d’Artagnan’s repertoire,” Aramis accuses him, and combs his fingers through Porthos’ curls, “Admit it.”

“Well, he keeps sayin’ this stuff, so it’s only natural,” Porthos grumbles and rubs his cheek over Aramis’ thigh. “Am I wrong then?”

“No, not particularly,” Athos admits in a quiet voice, and when Porthos takes his hand to kiss it, he lets him, “I am just glad you allow us.”

“Heh, what am I gonna do – flee the bed?” Porthos murmurs over Athos’ knuckles, and then he turns his hand, presses a kiss into his palm. “You’d probably force me down if I tried that.”

Porthos’ breath feels hot on Athos’ skin, and he bites his lip. “Very gently.”

“With a very precise hit to the chin,” Aramis adds with a soft smile. “You wouldn’t feel a thing.”

“Well, I wanna feel everythin’,” Porthos says in a reasonable tone of voice, “so we’re not gonna do that. My shoulder really _is_ feelin’ better, by the way – your stinky stuff’s workin’.” He expresses his gratitude by rubbing his hand over Aramis’ ass again, and Athos huffs in amusement, but does not say a word.

“Will you read a bit more for us?” Porthos asks then, in a voice so bashful as to render it completely irresistible. “I really like that.”

Athos smiles, pulls back his hand from Porthos’ gentle grip, and cards it through Porthos’ curls, “Of course I will.” He clears his throat, looks into Aramis’ eyes. “So tell me – which is your favourite in this collection of poems? Which is the dirtiest one?”

 

Aramis lasts two whole days before asking that Porthos executes the promised punishment. He takes good care of Porthos during those two days, wraps a warming bandage around his shoulder each morning, and gently massages it in the evenings.

Athos watches them with warmth in his chest – has always rather enjoyed those rare moments of tenderness between them. They have always been protective of each other, just as much away from the battlefield as on it, but it used to be rather difficult to get Porthos to accept treatment when he was wounded, used to be difficult to get Aramis to stay in one place long enough to allow for proper rest.

Now that their trust has deepened even further and their relationship evolved it all seems a little easier. Porthos no longer struggles to allow himself to be cared for – Aramis no longer feels the need to rush off to one of his affairs.

It is a rather nice side effect of everything that happened, Athos has to admit.

He loves that he is allowed to care for Porthos without being hindered now – loves that Aramis does no longer suffer from the old restlessness.

They are good together, all of them.

Luck has certainly favoured them recently.

Despite that they do not make any progress in their smuggling investigation at all during those two days, for the river bank remains undisturbed, and the road to Paris seems devoid of anyone but the most hardened travellers.

It starts to snow in the night before the third day, ever so lightly, and when they come home that evening the ground is still covered in white powder, the earth frozen so hard that it does not give an inch – not even beneath their horses’ hooves.

They brush the animals off, make sure they are warm and dry before stabling them, and leave it to the stable boy to feed them.

Aramis keeps biting and licking his lips, has been doing it ever since they returned to the city, and Athos is familiar enough with the spark in Aramis’ eyes to know what is afoot.

Porthos seems to know it too, is grinning happily – is winking at Aramis at any given opportunity.

Watching them excites Athos in a manner that borders on dizziness, and he takes several deep breaths to slow the fluttering beating of his heart inside his chest.

He is not afraid of what is going to happen – it is not fear that causes his heart to hammer inside his chest. It seems to be anticipation, pure and simple – seems to be the idea of Aramis on his hands and knees, begging to be punished that curses through his veins and sets his blood on fire.

Athos does not quite understand how that is possible, but has to accept it as fact nevertheless.

Aramis’ mouth is red and slick when they leave the stables – begs to be kissed – and Athos takes another deep breath, cannot deny that it is lust he feels at the sight.

He just wishes it would not confuse him so much – wishes he could enjoy the sensation without doubt and insecurity clinging to his shadow.

“Are we ready to go home then?” Aramis asks in that eager way of his, and Athos nods.

For a heartbeat or two he is unable to get out a single sound. Then he clears his throat. “More than ready I would say.”

“Marvellous,” Porthos says, and lifts his arms to pull Athos and Aramis underneath and walk them through the yard. His closeness and warmth do much to restore Athos’ equilibrium. “How about gettin’ some stew first? I need somethin’ hot inside me.”

D’Artagnan has been very quiet thus far, but he makes a strangled noise at that, and Aramis laughs at him, while Porthos snickers in delight. “That’s not what I meant.”

D’Artagnan tells him to shut up, and this time Porthos winks at _him_ , “You wanna come with? You need to eat too, after all.”

So they all go, spend a pleasant hour in a nice little tavern, and go home full and warm.

The sky is dark when they step outside; and it is snowing again, tiny flakes that settle on their hats and in their hair. Their breath comes out in clouds of white, and they hurry to accompany d’Artagnan home, despite his protests that it is not necessary.

They part from him outside his lodgings and turn homewards themselves, and Aramis lets out an impatient sigh when they are halfway down the street. “How is your shoulder doing, my dearest Porthos?”

Porthos chuckles and grins at him, and does not say a word.

He keeps silent until they are home, despite Aramis’ constant pestering – and Athos knows what he is doing, knows that Porthos is already preparing himself for what is about to happen.

The knowledge only sparks additional excitement in Athos, and once again he feels it so keenly that it leaves him off balance – as close to arousal as to nausea.

The cold night air helps him overcome the feeling, and when they reach Aramis’ lodgings, he has himself under firm control.

He is the one to unlock the door, to let the others inside and lock up again behind them. For he does not want them to be disturbed – not tonight of all nights. He wants them to enjoy the experience as much as possible, wants Aramis to emerge from it happy and content.

Porthos will certainly see to it that he does.

Aramis seems to harbour similar convictions. He latches on to Porthos as soon as the door is closed, presses into him with his whole body and looks up at him with glittering eyes. “Please say you’ll stop teasing me now.”

“Only if you promise to behave yourself,” Porthos replies in a rough voice, and Athos shivers, just as much as Aramis does. “You think you can do that?”

“Anything you want,” Aramis promises meekly, and when he cranes his neck for a kiss, Porthos obliges him – leans in and closes his eyes, and kisses Aramis in that gentle, thorough way of his that always leaves Athos warm and weak in the knees for hours on end.

Athos watches their profiles in the dim light, watches Aramis’ lashes flutter close and the way he clings to Porthos’ shoulders.

Porthos keeps himself straight, pulls Aramis up rather than bending down to him. He teases Aramis’ tongue out of his mouth, and makes him work for it, just a little.

Aramis responds beautifully. He whines into the kiss after a while, rubs up against Porthos and opens his mouth wider – is already so eager to be used that it sends a hot shiver down Athos’ spine.

Impatience has always been one of Aramis’ weaknesses, and now he behaves as though he has no control left, behaves as though he is already on the brink of begging.

Athos watches them for a moment longer, and then he averts his gaze with great difficulty and walks over to the fireplace. He kneels and takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment.

Maybe if he busies himself with lighting a fire for a while his heart will no longer feel quite so heavy inside his chest.

“Athos?” Porthos says quietly behind him, and he sounds so close that Athos turns his head, startled, “are you alright?”

He should have counted on Porthos noticing, should have known that they would not simply fall into this without … without making sure.

“Yes of course,” Athos replies immediately, and directs his eyes back towards his task, “I merely thought I would make us all comfortable while you two are … otherwise engaged.”

Porthos huffs in a manner that sounds vaguely frustrated, and crouches down on Athos left. “ _Will_ you be alright?”

The honest worry in his voice results in as much guilt as warmth coursing through Athos’ veins. “Yes,” he says again, meaning it, “I will be alright.” He smiles at Porthos. “It is you, after all. It is not the same.”

Aramis chooses that moment to crouch down at Athos’ right side, and he grabs Athos’ arm with both hands, holds on to him. “I don’t mean to be selfish –“

“You are not,” Athos tells him, and turns his head, looks into Aramis’ eyes and takes in his appearance – his flushed face and dilated pupils, his agitated breathing. “You want this just as much –“ he swallows, licks his lips, “just as much as I want the pressure on my neck.”

The words fall over his lips easily enough, and Athos’ heart feels a little lighter for it. Admitting to his desires no longer causes him pain.

Aramis bites his bottom lip in reaction, and Athos inclines his head. “Do you not?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, sounding helpless and breathless. “But … but for you I could –”

The need to kiss him is too strong to fight it, so Athos gives in; he leans in and closes his eyes, and claims Aramis’ mouth.

Aramis’ lips are already slick and warm from kissing Porthos, and Aramis is even more giving than usual, sweet and complaisant – is so very ardent that it is not hard at all to understand the appeal this presents to Porthos – the appeal it presented to _her_.

Athos breaks the kiss, strokes Aramis’ hair out of his face and smiles at him. “You want Porthos to take care of you now?”

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, “please.” He turns his face into Athos’ right hand, kisses his palm. “I’ll be good.”

His eyes are closed, his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, and the moonlight falling in through the window plays over his face so lovingly that it fills Athos with the desire to hold and take care of him as well as he can.

Porthos must experience a similar desire, for he lets out a sharp breath on Athos’ left, and stands up straight. “Alright then, let’s get you naked.”

Aramis nearly falls when he hastens to follow his example, and Porthos reaches out to catch him, pulls him close and murmurs soothing words into Aramis’ hair – only to follow them up with filthy promises of pleasure.

Athos watches the way Aramis clings to Porthos, sees the need in his friend’s posture, and he is glad that he did not deny him … is even glad that he will be there to watch.

A spark comes to life beneath his hands at that moment, and he tends it carefully, watches it grow into a flame, and eventually gets up and turns around to face the room.

Aramis is already naked – naked but for the rosary hanging around his neck, and Athos swallows at the sight, experiences a bolt of heat flashing through his whole body. “That was … quick.”

“Eh, you know Aramis,” Porthos replies in a satisfied voice, “always fast to lose his clothes – isn’t that right, kitten?”

Aramis smiles and nods, and Athos cannot ignore that his cock is already hard, curving towards his belly and leaking at the tip. He watches Aramis step in front of Porthos and press into him again, too needy to show restraint. “You promised not to tease me anymore.”

“Ah, but this isn’t teasing,” Porthos says in a tone that belies his words, “I’m just tellin’ Athos how it is.” He takes Aramis into his arms and strokes his hands over his naked back – down to his ass, and grabs it. “I’m takin’ care of you, aren’t I?”

Porthos is still dressed, has only stripped out of his jacket, and the contrast between that and Aramis’ nakedness sends a hot pulse through Athos; it finds a direct line to his cock, makes him bite down on a moan.

Porthos’ hands especially look more than just indecent on Aramis’ naked ass – how they press into Aramis’ skin and knead the firm flesh, how Porthos’ fingertips graze over Aramis’ cleft and his hole and make him shiver.

Porthos turns his head to look at Athos as though he _knows_ , and rewards him with a dark smile. “You better sit down, eh love?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees in a hoarse voice, “I’d better.”

He takes the chair that is standing beside the window and puts it on the other side of the room, across from the bed.

Porthos is still watching him when he sits down, and Athos very carefully clears his throat, “Please continue – Aramis must be going mad with the way you are making him wait.”

“I am,” Aramis whispers, and Athos has to bite his lip when he sees that Aramis is rubbing his cock against Porthos’ groin – that he has closed his eyes and is pushing into Porthos with his whole body. “Porthos, please.”

Porthos hums and kisses Aramis’ temple. “Alright then – up on the bed with you.” He helps Aramis onto the mattress, makes him kneel, legs spread and ass raised, and Aramis just _lets him_ , shivers beneath Porthos’ touch and moans into the bedding.

Athos knows the feeling, knows how the anticipation can very nearly be enough sometimes – not only enough but too much.

Just watching Porthos fall into his part sends sparks of excitement through Athos, and he is not even on the receiving end of his ministrations.

“Is this good for you?” Porthos asks Aramis, his voice dark – not so much menacing as _promising_ ; not so much a question as a suggestion that this in fact _very_ good for Aramis. He strokes his hand over Aramis’ ass as though he is measuring him, pushes his thumb against Aramis’ hole ever so gently, and Athos bites his tongue and suppresses a moan.

Aramis shivers and nods, and turns his head to the side so he can speak. His voice sounds broken when he does, breathy and feeble. “Yes – yes it is.”

“This good for you too, love?” Porthos asks next, and all Athos can do is nod in answer.

The way Aramis is displayed on the bed is lewd and wanton, makes Athos go hot and cold all over.

“Good then.” Porthos frowns in concentration and turns – turns so he is facing the bed, turns his back to Athos.

This way Athos is able to see the tension in his posture – he can see it move through Porthos’ back and into his shoulders, can see it settle on him like an old cloak. 

Athos knows what this means, has seen it often enough.

Porthos is not uncomfortable. He is _ready_. “I’m gonna start off slow, yeah kitten?”

Aramis’ hips twitch forward, his breath hitches, and he clenches his hole, and Athos grips the chair’s seat with both hands – so hard that his knuckles turn white.

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, his voice weak and full of longing, “yes, please do.”

Athos watches with bated breath as Porthos raises his hand.

Watching it go down feels a little bit like falling.

He knows it will hurt when he hits the ground.

Still he is not prepared for the noise of it hitting Aramis’ skin. It sounds just the same.

Just the same as it did with her.

Aramis lets out a shocked breath, _moans_ , and Porthos hits him again, a little harder.

“Is this good?” he asks right after his hand has connected with Aramis’ ass, and Aramis whimpers. “Yes, yes – it feels so good.”

Something hot unfurls in Athos’ chest, and he swallows, cannot look away. This must have been how she saw him – this is what he looked like, what he sounded like. 

She _told_ him that it felt good, and he never contradicted her, always agreed. Part of him did not even have to lie, found pleasure in her touch, was so desperate for it that he would have done anything –

Porthos hits Aramis again, hard enough to make Aramis’ whole body rock with the impact, and Aramis cries out, his voice hoarse with arousal and pain.

Suddenly Athos cannot breathe anymore.


	15. Chapter 15

For one brief, surreal moment Athos feels like a little boy again. His chair is the one in his childhood study, and he is forced to sit and listen to the teacher – listen to stories of deceit and murder – Latin lessons deemed appropriate for a child of five.

Athos stares at what is happening on the bed on the other side of the room – stares with his eyes wide open until they start to water, and the room starts to shrink around him.

It splinters at the edges, rips and breaks into a myriad of pieces that fall away to reveal the bedroom at La Fère – with a fire burning in the hearth, and the smell of perfume heavy in the air.

Athos remembers it clearly – how the blanket felt beneath his cheek the first time he knelt for her. She was still gentle, that first time, did not make him bleed.

It still made his blood rush with pleasure when her hand hit his skin … she still allowed him to kneel on the bed then.

The bed became the carpet, and then the wooden floor, and he can still recall how it felt beneath his knees, how it pressed into the tender skin there – left him with bruises that turned walking into a chore during the days that followed, reminded him of his disgrace everywhere he went.

He remembers how aroused he was, how _ashamed_ , how he did anything she asked of him and begged her not to stop; while his flesh turned red and raw under her hands and she made an animal out of him.

He never wanted it to hurt.

_But still he begged._

He was a pitiful creature, _he still is_ , and when Porthos raises his hand again, when Athos sees the red streaks already visible on Aramis’ skin, he cannot watch anymore.

His chest hurts from the lack of air in his lungs, he feels _sick_ , and when Athos gets up, his legs can barely carry him.

How he makes it to the door without falling he does not know.

The door handle yields to his grip easily enough, but the door does not open, and Athos panics; he claws into the wood until he remembers that it is locked – that he locked it himself.

He notices movement behind him and squeezes his eyes shut, searches blindly for the key. It is still in the lock and he turns it with shaking hands, pries the door open and stumbles outside.

His lungs burn for air, but he cannot – he cannot breathe.

He does not hear anything for the rushing of his blood in his ears, and the cold hits him in the face like some mythical force – as though it wants to push him back inside … back inside that room and the horrors it holds.

Athos sobs and fights his way forward, away from the door – one hand to the cold wall, until he cannot even walk anymore.

He bends over and vomits, and tears stream down his cheeks. His whole body starts to feel as though it was on fire.

Still he cannot breathe, and he thinks he might fall – fall forward and faint – that he might wake up the next morning in his own soil like the drunkard he is.

“Athos?”

It is Porthos’ voice, of course it is, and Athos does not shrink from the touch to his shoulder, welcomes it like a balm.

Porthos will not let him fall. He will save him from that indignity at least.

“You’re gettin’ all cold, love,” Porthos murmurs, and pulls him closer, so very carefully.

His warmth breaks over Athos like the tide.

He can breathe again. Athos’ throat makes a choked noise as his lungs draw in some desperately needed air. “I am so sorry –“

“Shht, love, it’s alright,” Porthos whispers in a soothing voice, pulls Athos into his arms and holds him, “it’s alright, it’s not your fault.”

Athos presses his face into Porthos’ chest, and he cannot stop crying – shakes under the force of his gasps, and his muscles tense up so much that each movement starts to hurt.

Porthos’ hands are on his back, barely touching, and his warmth is all that keeps Athos upright. “Do you … do you think you can come back inside?” Porthos asks him, his voice infinitely gentle. “It is so cold out here. I don’t want you to get sick.”

Athos nods, for he cannot speak – can barely walk when Porthos takes hold of his arm and leads him back inside.

He tries to tell himself that it is not the same room – that it is not where he suffered and broke, but still Athos does not look up when they cross the threshold.

He knows that Aramis is the one who closes the door – that Aramis is the one to wrap a blanket around his shoulders.

Porthos leads him to the bed, pushes him down into a sitting position, and Athos hunches over, hides his face in his hands. “I am so sorry – I thought I could – I thought –“

“Breathe, love – you need to breathe,” Porthos says in an urgent voice, and now he touches him properly, puts his hands on Athos’ shoulders and squeezes. “Come on, darlin', calm down, just a little.”

Athos wheezes, and his lungs hurt, but he does what Porthos asks of him – will always do what Porthos asks of him. “Porthos –“

“I’m here,” Porthos says, and then he is in front of Athos, down on the floor, and pulls him into his arms again, “I got you, love – I’m here.”

Athos clings to him, pushes his face into Porthos’ neck and cries.

His body won’t stop shaking, and he just cannot let go of the memory of her striking his skin – cannot stop thinking about the hot flash of lust and pain the whip sent through his body.

He feels half aroused even now, despite everything, and the realization makes him convulse – would make him throw up again if he had anything left to give.

Porthos allows him to twist against him, holds him safe and warm inside his arms, does not even pull back when Athos starts to gag. He keeps murmuring into Athos’ ear, tells him that he is safe, that they will not leave him, that it was not his fault.

Athos believes him just as much as he does not, feels split down in the middle with one half of him pitying the other and neither of them knowing which is the real one.

He knows that he will eventually calm down and leave this horrible moment behind, but it does not _feel_ like it – it feels as though it will go on forever.

It will go on forever, and he will eventually succumb to despair and nothingness.

Just like he did when she –

“Athos.”

Aramis’ voice is soft, like that of a frightened child, but his touch is warm.

Athos shivers when Aramis’ hand comes to rest against his shoulder, but he leans into him, leans into the touch and takes a deep, steady breath.

“That’s it,” Porthos says in an approving tone, “that’s just it, love – you’re doin’ good.”

It makes Athos feel ashamed that he cannot even calm down by himself, that he needs help just to breathe, and he pushes his face more firmly into Porthos’ neck. “I am sorry.”

“We love you,” Porthos says quietly, “and you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Aramis’ hand strokes over his shoulder, and his touch is so timid and shy that Athos wishes he could be better for him – be whole and strong instead of this weak, twisted thing he has become.

A whimper escapes his throat, but he manages to keep breathing, does not lose control again.

Instead he notices the vice-like grip he has on Porthos’ shirt, and when he tries to loosen his hold on the fabric his hands actually obey him, although it hurts to let go.

Athos feels so exhausted suddenly, too tired even to cry; and he lifts his right hand to his face to wipe at his tears, while he tries to ignore the emptiness in his gut that threatens to swallow him from the inside out.

He had thought he had left her and everything she did to him behind.

But she is still there, still has control over him after all those years.

He will never be rid of her.

It is time he accepted that fact.

Athos swallows and looks up, afraid what he might find in his lovers’ eyes; but he cannot hide anymore. He needs to brave it now or he will never be able to.

Porthos looks worried, is gazing back at him out of wide eyes, warm and understanding, and Athos feels the sting of fresh tears at the back of his lids. “I am better now.”

His voice sounds raw, hoarse and wrecked, and when Porthos reaches out to wipe the tear streaks off Athos’ face, Athos keeps still and lets him. “You sound a little tired, love.”

In another life Athos would smile at the understatement.

He braves a glance at Aramis’ face, and for one terrifying moment it feels as though he was staring into a mirror.

Aramis looks broken, afraid and _guilty_.

Athos’ chest aches with the echo of these emotions – even more so when his own pain reaches out to greet and answer them.

Then Aramis’ features smooth over, and he smiles at Athos – takes the sting out of Athos’ heart. “Porthos is right. Do you – do you want to go to bed?”

Athos might wish that Aramis had refrained from phrasing it as a question, but that does not change the truth of the matter. “I do not know if I can sleep.”

“We’ll try all the same,” Porthos says in a decisive voice – and that is better, allows Athos to give in and follow directions instead of having to make decisions for himself.

Porthos gets up from his position in front of Athos, brushes a kiss to his forehead before he steps away, and Athos closes his eyes, tries to keep breathing – to do just that.

He feels too exhausted for more – feels too exhausted to get rid of the globe of ice that is growing inside his gut.

Aramis stays at his side, and his hand stays on Athos’ shoulder, just warm enough to prevent Athos from washing away until Porthos returns.

When he does, he brings a basin of water with him, washes Athos’ face and makes him rinse his mouth, and that helps a little, makes Athos feel a little more human.

But the ice is still there. He can feel it spread beneath his skin.

They undress him together, Porthos and Aramis, put him to rest between their bodies where he is safe and warm, and that helps as well.

Porthos kisses his temple, lets his mouth linger there, and Athos closes his eyes, lies on his back between them, and fists his right hand into Porthos’ shirt.

“I love you,” Aramis tells him in a broken voice, takes Athos’ left hand into his and links their fingers.

Athos lets out a stuttering breath, does not get out anything in return.

He wants to thank Aramis, but he cannot … wants to tell him that he is sorry for what he did, but he cannot do that either.

Porthos would not let him, would not allow Athos to lay the blame where it belongs.

So Athos stays quiet, does nothing but squeeze Aramis’ hand, and he feels a little lighter for it.

His breathing goes easily enough now, even if it is still painful in the aftershocks of his breakdown, and he tries to relax, tries to ease the tension in his muscles so he does not hurt even while lying completely still.

Porthos moves closer to him after a while, pulls Athos into his arms and starts to stroke his hands over his body – slow and careful, incessantly gentle, and Athos falls asleep like that … in Porthos’ arms, holding Aramis’ hand.

 

The next morning comes too soon.

Athos wakes aching all over, feels tired and exhausted, and it reminds him of the time when he still drank to forget – when he awoke with a head full of darkness, full of memories not unlike the ones plaguing him now.

Aramis and Porthos are awake as well, are looking at him with worry in their eyes, and for a moment it is so hard to put on a mask for them – as though he has already forgotten how to do that.

He had been so happy with them.

He just wishes he had not been the one to let it all come to ruin.

Athos pulls away from Porthos’ touch, gets up to wash his face and get dressed, and he concentrates on the way his muscles pull and hurt rather than the cold ache in his chest.

He had hoped that he would feel better in the morning, but he does not.

His guilt has only grown, as has his shame.

He deprived Aramis of what was supposed to be a night of enjoyment, made Porthos care for him when his attention should have been Aramis’ – and that after they had asked him if he was alright with what they were about to do, after he had promised them that he would be.

It is no wonder Aramis won’t look him in the eye when Athos glances in his direction.

He must be so disappointed.

Athos takes a steadying breath, stops moving for a moment, and that is when Porthos gets up, and crosses the room towards him.

Athos tenses and shrinks from his touch, for he does not deserve Porthos’ care – deserves neither his warmth nor his gentleness. “I am fine.”

Porthos lowers his outstretched hand and frowns, and a long moment passes before he opens his mouth to speak. “It’s really alright if you’re not.”

“I am fine, all the same,” Athos hears himself say, his voice hollow. He leaves Porthos standing and continues to dress himself. It takes everything he has not to sink down to his knees in front of Porthos and beg for his forgiveness.

Porthos has given him so much already, has given it all in vain, and Athos cannot ask for more.

He waits by the door with his eyes on the floor while Porthos and Aramis get ready as well.

They get dressed without saying a word, exchange neither touches nor kisses, and Athos knows that he did this too – that he is the one responsible for the joyless silence choking them all.

The outside world greets them with a dark, grey sky, with frost on the ground and ice in the air, and Athos lets out a startled noise when Porthos drapes a scarf around his neck without warning.

“Sorry,” Porthos mumbles in a rough voice, and steps away. His warmth lingers on Athos’ skin for a moment, burns him in a way it never has before.

He does not deserve it, Athos realizes, and that is why it hurts.

 

The way to the garrison is filled with the kind of quiet that suffocates the heart, and Athos had almost forgotten that sensation of pulling himself together for the eyes of the public – of presenting a pleasant façade to hide the rotten core underneath.

D’Artagnan is already there when they arrive, is sharing a cold breakfast with some of the other musketeers, and Athos’ gut pulls itself in knots at the realization that he will not be able to hide himself from him.

D’Artagnan knows him too well, can read him too easily.

As soon as d’Artagnan gets a good look at Athos’ face his own falls, shifts into an expression of concern. The hasty way the boy stands up from the table makes Athos want to stop and turn, and he takes a deep breath, does his utmost to gain control over his voice. “Do not tell him.”

“Of course not,” Porthos replies quietly, and Athos feels a little lighter.

He could not bear the shame of d’Artagnan knowing.

“Did something happen?” the boy asks as he walks towards them – too loud for privacy – and that arouses the other musketeers’ attention, makes Athos feel sick with apprehension.

“Apart from the weather you mean?” he hears Aramis’ voice from his left. “I for one barely got any sleep last night, I was so cold.”

He sounds convincing enough, even to Athos’ ears, and Athos feels so indebted to him that he could cry.

He looks at d’Artagnan and feels the old mask settle over his face, worn and fraying at the edges. “Are you ready to leave?” he asks in a numb voice. “The Captain has advised us to go into the harbour district again, since our search of the river banks did not bear any fruit.”

“I am ready,” d’Artagnan confirms, “but Athos, are you sure you aren’t –“

“Too cold to do his duty?” Aramis interrupts him with a strategic smile. “You should know him better, my dear d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan frowns, looks from one to the other and eventually huffs in frustration. “Very well then. I won’t ask.”

Athos is far too close to thanking him. He controls himself, does not say a word and turns on the spot to walk back out of the garrison.

He does not need to see the Captain, has received his orders on the previous day after all. He does not want the pressure of another pair of eyes on him that has known him for years and can pry off his armour with a single glance.

He wants neither sympathy nor worry – all he wants to do is his duty. Only when he cannot even do that anymore will his life be truly worthless.

Athos only stops walking once they are close to the harbour district, and when he turns around to face his friends, the look of heartache on Porthos’ features makes him feel sick with guilt.

“I suggest that we split up,” he says, his voice as smooth as worn marble. “D’Artagnan goes with me, which leaves you two to –“

“No,” Porthos interrupts him, and the pain in his eyes does not allow for protest, “you’re comin’ with me.”

The silence his words leave behind casts a net of nervous apprehension over Aramis and d’Artagnan, while Athos experiences a strange calmness instead.

“Very well,” he says evenly. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Porthos says, his voice low and adamant – and it reaches right inside Athos’ chest, that tone, grabs the ball of ice that has been growing inside him all morning, crushes it beneath its touch. “I need to ask you somethin’.” He looks at Aramis and d’Artagnan out of the corner of his eyes. “In private.”

“Ah, we better leave you alone then!” Aramis exclaims in a voice so obviously pretending to be cheerful that d’Artagnan winces.

“Yes, we better.” He pulls Aramis away with him – only looks back to inform Athos which tavern they will await them in by sundown.

Athos watches them walk into a side street, stares at the corner they disappeared behind long after they are gone.

“You wanted to ask me something?” he says eventually, and his voice sounds dead, even to his own ears.

“Yeah,” Porthos replies, so sad that Athos aches with it, “because … because you gotta tell me if you don’t want me to touch you anymore.”

Athos turns his head to face him. His voice does not sound dead anymore but broken, and the shards prick at his windpipe, “What?”

Porthos’ eyes are wide open, looking back at him. Athos can see the tears he is holding back, can see agony in the way he is holding his shoulders – in the way he is holding himself so very upright, so careful not to bend and break.

“If … if I made you afraid of me touchin’ you with … with what happened last night,” Porthos says, ploughing on the way he always does, brave despite the pain this must cause him, “you need to tell me … and I’ll stop.”

“I am not afraid of you,” Athos exclaims, and the sheer volume with which he utters the words startles him into movement and closer to Porthos. “I do not … I simply do not deserve your touch,” he whispers, “I deserve neither your care nor your concern, and I want you to know that –“

A harsh breath explodes out of Porthos’ chest at that, and he grabs him, pulls him into his arms. “God, Athos!” His warmth is like a shock to Athos’ system, and he keeps still, does not dare to move. “It wasn’t your fault – you hear me? None of what happened was your fault! You deserve everythin’ good I can give you, always, and I’ll never stop givin’ it to you!”

Athos closes his eyes, leans his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder and breathes, in and out, until it does not hurt anymore. “You are not … disappointed with me?”

Porthos pulls him closer with a jerk, and his chest heaves beneath ragged breaths. “I was so very worried I’d … I’d frightened you away!” There are tears in his voice, and he does not hide them from Athos, because he never hides anything. “How could I ever be disappointed with you when I’m the one who caused all this trouble?”

Athos very nearly smiles then because that –

“It was not your fault, Porthos.”

“Yeah, it was.” He strokes his hands over Athos’ back. “I knew, didn’t I?”

Athos lets out a fluttering breath and looks up. “You trusted me to know my own mind, and I … I am so very sorry that I failed you.”

“You didn’t fail me,” Porthos whispers, and this time Athos does smile, if only because the pattern of this conversation manages to tickle his sense of humour despite everything that happened. “If anything I failed you.” He is smiling back at Athos, even if his eyes are still wet – looks down to where Athos’ hands are holding on to the leather of his uniform. “So you don’t mind me touchin’ you? I still can?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms in a shaky voice, “you still can.”

Porthos takes a deep breath, seems to be so very relieved at the prospect that Athos has to fight a few tears of his own. “I am so sorry that I made you doubt –“

“Eh, stop it,” Porthos interrupts him gently. “How you get through what happened is none of my business. I just … I just needed to make sure.”

“Then at least allow me to thank you for doing so,” Athos says earnestly. “Because it seems I … I needed you to do just that.”

They both clear their throats then, and Athos straightens. He needs a moment to convince his fingers to let go of Porthos’ uniform. “I … I did not think that I could still fall this far,” he admits quietly, staring down at the ground. “I am … ashamed that I did.”

Instead of telling Athos that he is wrong to feel this way, Porthos grabs his elbow and pulls him along, walks him slowly down the street. “You think you can eat somethin’?”

Athos wants to kiss him so badly that it hurts. “Yes, I believe so.”

 

Athos allows Porthos to pull him into a clean little tavern, and the food and drink Porthos forces on him actually makes Athos feel a little better.

His stomach settles, accepts bread and cheese without complaint, and Athos relaxes somewhat, even though most of his body still hurts as his muscles recover from the strain he put on them the previous night.

They go back out into the streets afterwards, and it is not quite so hard anymore for Athos to hold his head high and straighten his back.

“You look much better,” Porthos tells him in a low voice, gently encouraging, and Athos feels inclined to smile.

“I do feel better,” he replies, glad that he can be honest. He is grateful that he does not have to do this alone, that he has help this time.

Picking up the pieces certainly is a work accomplished much faster with two pairs of hands. He only wishes Aramis was present as well, so that Athos could show him how much better he already is.

The memory of Aramis’ behaviour after what happened last night brings a slight frown back onto Athos’ features, and Porthos sees it at once – makes a worried noise. “What? What is it?”

“Aramis,” Athos says softly. “Part of me … part of me wishes he had not seen me as I was last night.”

“Why not?” Porthos asks, and he does not sound worried so much as confused anymore. “He doesn’t judge.”

“Yes, well –“ Athos clears his throat, tries to find the right words to explain the growing sense of unease in his chest, “he … what happened … it was not … Last night cannot have been what he longed it to be.”

Porthos grunts. “I hope not! What – you think he’s gonna be angry?”

“Not angry,” Athos amends, “but perhaps … perhaps disappointed.”

“He’s not,” Porthos says in a flat voice. “Not with you anyway. So what if it didn’t happen the way he’d hoped? You think he always got what he wanted from his affairs, when he had to leave in the middle of the night, or hide himself under the bed more often than not?” He puts his hand on Athos’ shoulder, squeezes it gently. “He was upset, I give you that, upset and worried for you – but that’s all he was.”

Athos sighs and allows the topic to drop, concentrates on their mission instead.

The inhabitants of the harbour district seem to know them well enough by now. While quite a few seem ready to help, there are really no answers they or anyone else can give them that do actually bring them further in their investigation.

 

The day ends just like every other in the last two weeks, with frustration and cold limbs, but today also gives them an added layer of fresh snow on the ground.

Athos has no very clear idea how to get to the tavern d’Artagnan mentioned earlier, but Porthos leads him there, dependable as ever.

A wall of smoke and heat greets them when they open the door, and Athos’ eyes start to water when he is confronted with the rich aroma of humanity gathered inside. He spots d’Artagnan where he himself would have picked a table – in the corner furthest from the door, where he is able to survey the room with his back to the wall.

He spots d’Artagnan, but he does not spot Aramis.

Athos’ heart falls into a complicated staccato rhythm at the discovery of Aramis’ absence, and at his side Porthos grunts in surprise. “What’s this now? Where is he?”

D’Artagnan looks uneasy when he sees them advance on his table, and neither of them needs to ask, he speaks up all by himself, “He went home.”

“Why?” Porthos growls in a voice that sounds as bewildered as it sounds worried.

Athos’ heart sinks like a stone would sink in a murky pond, all the way to the ground where no sunlight ever reaches.

“He – he said you would understand?” d’Artagnan replies nervously. “He … he also said that I should –“ he stares down at the table, starts to whisper, “that I should give you his love … and ask you not to come looking for him.”

Porthos makes an impatient noise at that. “And you let him _leave_?”

D’Artagnan recoils from the unbridled anger in his voice, and Athos puts his hand on Porthos’ shoulder, pulls him back. “Do not yell at him, please. He merely did what Aramis asked of him. As shall we.”

“What?” Porthos exclaims, incredulous, “No, we won’t!”

“If Aramis needs one night of undisturbed rest we will grant him that,” Athos insists, knowing neither where he finds the words nor the strength to speak, “We owe him that much.”

Porthos seems to shrink in reaction to Athos’ words, lowers his shoulders and un-balls his fists. Confusion laced with worry springs into his features, “You know how he hates to be alone at night.”

“Even more reason to listen to him when he asks for solitude,” Athos argues. He is not certain if he believes his own words, is only certain that he will not force his presence on Aramis if he does not want to see him.

Aramis must be disappointed and angry with him after all. Athos can hardly blame him for that.

Next to him Porthos produces another noise signalling distress and frustration. He nods at d’Artagnan in a manner that is as friendly as it is curt, and straightens. “I’m sure you meant well, but Athos and I have to leave now.”

He all but drags Athos outside with him, and Athos lets him – would allow it even if he was not feeling as weak as a twig in a hailstorm.

“I’ll bring you home,” Porthos announces as soon as the tavern-door closes behind them and dims the clamour inside. “I’ll bring you home, and then I’ll go and look for him, because whatever reason you think he has for runnin’ away like this – I don’t think you’re right.”

His voice and the cold act on Athos like a tonic – wake him up from the shock of finding d’Artagnan alone. He takes a deep breath, and nods. “Whatever you deem best, my friend.”

Porthos looks at him out of narrowed eyes, and then he pulls him along, down the street and towards his lodgings.

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks in a conversational tone after they have walked in silence for a while. “I think he blames himself, just like you do.”

Athos blinks at the white cloud his breath has left in the air in front of him, and walks right into it, blinks again, “Why would he do that?”

“Unbelievable,” Porthos mutters, very, very quietly, and Athos turns his head to look at him – catches a glimpse of fond exasperation on Porthos’ features. “Because he was the one who asked for it, wasn’t he?” Porthos kicks at a loose stone and sends it clattering over the cobbles – disturbs a cat searching for food in the refuse lining the street and sends it hissing in the direction they came from. “Gives him plenty of reason, that, I’d say.”

“But he _asked_ ,” is all Athos can reply to that, and Porthos huffs, shakes his head.

“Yeah, he asked – _and I said yes_ , and so did you, and now look where that got us. You can blame us all or none of us, but you don’t get to blame only yourself, love – I won’t let you do that.”

He sounds serious enough to make Athos smile. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Porthos confirms emphatically, “that’s how it is and I don’t even care if you don’t like it.”

There is a smile in his voice now, grim, yes, but still brighter than anything Athos could offer him in return.

He lifts his eyes to Porthos’, tries to tell him without words how sorry he is, how grateful – how much he loves him.

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos whispers, “me too, love – me too.”

He brings Athos home to his lodgings, lights a fire in the hearth for him – brushes a kiss to Athos’ forehead and urges him to lie down.

He leaves with the promise to bring Aramis home.

Athos undresses, slowly and deliberately, and waits for Porthos and Aramis to return.

He stands beside the bed and looks down on it as though he has never seen it before. It has been weeks since he last slept here, months since he last slept in his own bed.

He does not know how to sleep alone anymore, and strangely enough that is not what frightens him. What frightens Athos is the possibility that he might have to – that he might have to learn to be alone again.

He sits down on the edge of the bed in his undergarments, half of his face in shadow, the other half illuminated by the fire in the hearth. He takes a deep breath, recalls everything Porthos said to him today – recalls all the reasons Athos gave him to leave ever since the first night they spent together.

It takes him a while, but in the end he does realize that Porthos always chose to stay instead.

Porthos will not leave him; Athos knows this, even the part of him that insists on blaming himself for breathing.

Porthos will not leave him – but Aramis might.

Maybe he already has.

Because Aramis is not Porthos, and while Athos will never ask him to change, he cannot expect Aramis to stand by his side through weakness and failure the way Porthos does.

Aramis is strong and he is brave, but he is only flesh and blood; he has needs, and if he needs something Athos cannot give him, then Athos will not blame him for leaving.

It will hurt him, it will take away a part of his soul he is not sure he can live without … but he will not blame Aramis for being human.

The fire crackles in the hearth, and Athos raises his head with a jerk, shakes it to chase off the poisonous cobwebs clinging to his thoughts.

He is being rash.

Porthos would probably growl at him for allowing his mind to wander like this – shake him and call him a fool … far too fond, endlessly patient … pull him into his arms and kiss him to ease the pain.

Porthos promised him to bring Aramis home, and he will; they will talk about what happened, and Athos will get better again.

He has to.

He _wants_ to.

There is a scratch at the door and it opens. Athos looks up eagerly, his heart in his throat.

Porthos is alone.

Aramis is not with him.

Porthos is alone, and he looks angry, confused and worried, all at once, but most of all he looks disappointed.

“He wasn’t home,” he says, his voice rough and quiet, “I waited for him to show up, but he didn’t come. I don’t know where he is.” He looks at Athos, and his face seems to crumble, “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anythin’, love – please don’t cry.”

Only then does Athos notice his blurred vision, and he sobs, hangs his head and hides his face.

“I did this,” he says; his voice is sharp and brittle beneath the tears, “I turned him away – I made him leave.”


	16. Chapter 16

The door closes with a crash, and then Porthos is there, on the floor by the side of the bed, his hands on Athos’ cheeks.

“Come here,” he says, and Athos comes, because giving in is easy, giving in is sweet, and Porthos’ arms feel like home. “Come here, love, let me hold you.”

He pulls Athos off the bed, holds him against his chest and whispers soothing words into his hair, kisses his temple.

Athos’ breathing stays strangely even, and he does not lose control – not like he did last night. He hides his face and his tears against Porthos’ chest, and it _hurts_ , the thought that he has lost Aramis, hurts so much that it blocks out everything else.

But Porthos is there. Porthos’ warmth dulls the pain, wraps it up in light and affection and draws it out of Athos, one kiss at a time.

Porthos makes him lift his head, brushes his lips over the tear-streaks on Athos’ cheeks, and Athos keeps his eyes closed and breathes him in. “I love you,” he says, his voice broken and weak.

Porthos kisses his mouth then, gentle, his lips exerting careful pressure, warm and safe. “I love you.”

He does not say it all that often, not nearly as much as Aramis did, and Athos opens his mouth for him, wants to taste the words on his tongue.

Porthos gives him what he wants, because he always does, takes possession of Athos’ mouth and kisses him with such thorough devotion that it eases the pressure on Athos’ chest, if only a little.

He whines when Porthos takes his mouth away, and receives another kiss, brief and sweet. “Up on the bed with you.”

“That is where I was,” Athos murmurs, and pushes his face against he crook of Porthos’ neck. “You are the one who pulled me down.”

“And now I’m the one who pushes you back up,” Porthos replies and presses a kiss to Athos’ earlobe as he puts that theory to practise. “Give me a moment to get out of my uniform, yeah?”

Athos opens his eyes then, watches him undress in the firelight, and a painful breath shudders through him. “Where do you think he is?”

Porthos stops in the process of unbuttoning his jacket and frowns, “I don’t know.” He continues the movement of his fingers and strips out of his jacket. “Gettin’ drunk, I suppose.” He sighs. “I just hope he’s not doin’ anythin’ stupid.”

Athos very nearly smiles at that. “Like I would, you mean?”

“Your stupid and his stupid are rather different in how you let it out most of the time,” Porthos says while getting out of his boots and trousers. “Thank goodness.” He sounds so fond saying the words, so calm and peaceful about it – as though it was a matter of course to love them for their sins just as much as for their virtues.

Athos begins to understand that it might just be the only approach towards this relationship worth taking – the only one that _works_.

If only he could take that same road towards treating himself he would probably lead a life by far less painful – would lead his life the way Porthos wants him to.

Maybe he will learn some day. Porthos is a good teacher, after all.

For the moment Athos is far too concerned about Aramis to make even an attempt at learning.

“What if he …” he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, “what if he is with someone else?”

“He’s not,” Porthos says flatly. “I know you’ve been waitin’ for him to step out of line ever since he came to bed with us, but he won’t do that – that’s not who he is.” He looks into Athos’ eyes, and a tentative expression moves onto his face. “You _know_ that’s not who he is, love, and you gotta stop waitin’ for it to happen. You’re just hurtin’ yourself.”

Athos swallows thickly, and clears his throat. “As many lovers as he has had –“

“He’s faithful to the ones who are faithful to him,” Porthos interrupts him softly. “He only goes lookin’ for new love when the old one’s lost.” He looks into Athos’ eyes, holds his gaze. “I think he’s too busy blamin’ himself for what happened to do that just yet.”

Athos lets out a deep breath at that and nods. He does not want Aramis to be with someone else tonight, but if he _is_ , Athos has no-one but himself to blame.

He pulls the blanket on the bed closer towards him, pulls it around himself and hunches his shoulders. “I hope you are right.”

“So do I.” Porthos remains standing where he is for a moment, his eyes on the floor. “I shouldn’t have sent him away with d’Artagnan today. I think that just made everythin’ worse for him.” He looks up, guilty and sad. “I should’ve talked to you with him there.” He bites his lips. “I just … I just had to make sure you weren’t afraid of me.”

“Come here,” Athos says and opens his arms for him, “come to bed.”

Porthos smiles and comes, steps into Athos’ arms and pulls him onto the mattress with him, pulls the blanket over them both. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” Athos agrees immediately. “I want him with us just as much as you do.”

“I know,” Porthos murmurs into his hair, rolls around so he is on his back and pulls Athos on top of him. His hands are warm on Athos’ skin, and his deep regular breaths do a lot to help Athos overcome unease and dread. “Are you feelin’ a bit better?”

“Much,” Athos says quietly. “The way I behaved last night, it was –“ He stops, takes a deep breath of his own. “I am still not sure what happened. Even when I … when I found the flowers on the day of the Queen’s picnic party I did not … lose control like this.”

“That was different,” Porthos murmurs soothingly. “That was those bloody flowers remindin’ you of _her_ … what Aramis and I did was, eh, a little bit different. We won’t do it again, I promise.”

Athos keeps quiet; for he believes that neither Aramis nor Porthos should suffer for his weakness. They should be free to live and enjoy their desire in any way they please – should not be forced to hide anything because of him.

Porthos clears his throat, and Athos can feel it vibrate through Porthos’ chest and into his own. It feels so pleasant, Porthos’ warmth, his presence – the way he strokes his hands up and down Athos’ back beneath the blanket. “Was it … was it the whole situation that got to you … or was it somethin’ I did?”

Athos lifts his head, looks down at him through the orange light the fire is casting on them. The fear in Porthos’ eyes makes it entirely impossible not to answer. “It was the … the sounds, I believe. The sound of your hand connecting with his skin – his cries.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos murmurs and pulls him back down, holds Athos so very tight in his arms that there could not be a safer place in the world, “I’m so sorry, love.”

“It was not your fault,” Athos whispers against his skin. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the embrace. “I was … I was aroused by what I saw – and Aramis enjoyed it too. I just … I just remembered.”

“Alright then.” Porthos kisses his temple, keeps his mouth there, and Athos enjoys the soft pressure of Porthos’ lips against his skin, “Do you think you can sleep?”

“Yes,” Athos murmurs, does not fight the exhaustion that has been lingering in his bones ever since the previous night. “I still have you, do I not?”

“Always,” Porthos promises him earnestly, and Athos falls asleep far sooner and easier than he would ever have thought possible.

 

There is snow on the windowpane the next morning. A sliver of blue sky is visible through the glass just above it, dotted with clouds.

Athos opens his eyes and hums, turns his face into Porthos’ chest and stretches. He loves waking up on Porthos, loves the feeling of his body underneath his own. For one perfect moment he is so comfortable that it feels like floating.

Until he remembers.

He lifts his head, looks down at Porthos and receives a warm smile. “Neighbours had a little shout over snitched fire-wood early this mornin’ … you didn’t even hear that, did you?”

“No, I slept rather well,” Athos admits, surprised by the lingering feeling of comfort inside his bones. “Did they part peaceably?”

“Yeah, after I told them to bugger off,” Porthos grins, “Had to protect your sleep, didn’t I?”

Athos cranes his neck for a kiss in reply, and Porthos obliges him with a brief peck on the lips – then rolls them around on the bed, buries Athos beneath him.

While Athos recovers from having the air crushed out of his lungs, Porthos rubs his nose over his cheek, presses another kiss there. “Ready to get our kitten back?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, still somewhat out of breath, but determined enough, “I am.”

“Good!” Porthos kisses him properly then, sweet and all too fleeting. “Let’s get dressed.”

He rolls off Athos and out of bed in one smooth motion, and Athos can only blink up at him, is still working on getting his breath back. “You are rather well rested yourself it seems.”

Porthos huffs, fondly amused, reaches out his hand and pulls Athos up. “After gettin’ to hold you all through the night? ‘Course I am.”

Athos prefers to get dressed in silence after that, or the blush on his cheeks might attract undesired attention from strangers once they emerge out into the streets.

Porthos merely grins when Athos stays silent. He refrains from teasing Athos, all he does is drape a scarf around Athos’ neck to protect him from the cold before they step outside.

His touch does not burn Athos like it did last time – feels just as right and safe as it always had before – and Athos reaches out his hand, holds on to Porthos’ jacket collar for a moment. “Thank you.”

Porthos smiles and drops a kiss onto Athos’ forehead, “Always.”

 

The walk to the garrison is a vastly different experience from the one on the previous day.

Athos feels secure in his skin again, feels _human_. Apart from a hollow feeling in his ribcage because Aramis is not with them he even feels … he would even go so far as to say he feels _good_. A bit numb perhaps. But that will pass as soon as Aramis is with them again.

All hope is no longer lost to him. There is light in the world again – Athos can even find a little in himself. He is no longer afraid of facing his friends, even looks forward to seeing d’Artagnan again – smiles when he spots him in the yard, standing by one of the braziers.

D’Artagnan’s reaction when he recognizes them is immediate, and he more runs than walks across the yard, looks both of them over with worried eyes. “Good morning.”

Porthos pulls him in for a hug instead of giving a reply, and d’Artagnan struggles for a moment or two, but then he settles and sighs. “So. You’re not angry with me?”

“Sorry for yellin’ at you last night,” Porthos murmurs next to his ear, and Athos makes a valiant attempt to hide his smile, “’S not your fault that Aramis ran away from us.”

“So you’re going to tell me what happened now?” d’Artagnan asks in a hopeful voice, nicely paired with a hopeful look, and Athos clears his throat.

“No.”

D’Artagnan narrows his eyes at him over Porthos’ shoulder, still held captive in Porthos’ arms.

“Not in detail at least,” Athos amends. “We had a – it was –“ He stops, frowns, and presses his lips together. “My past threw a rather dark shadow on our present.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan says, just that and nothing more. He finally frees himself from Porthos’ embrace, a look of panic on his face. “She’s not back, is she?”

Athos very nearly flinches, and Porthos grabs his elbow – comforting, steadying. “No, she’s not,” he says, and ducks his head when he becomes aware of his volume. He carefully clears his throat, hunches his shoulders. “Athos is bein’ metaphorical here. Very metaphorical. You haven’t seen Aramis yet, have you?”

“No,” d’Artagnan replies, his look of panic replaced by one of slight annoyance, “not since he abandoned me last night.”

He is standing with his back to the yard and facing the entrance, and the annoyance drops from his face suddenly, while his eyes widen in hopeful surprise.

When Athos turns to see what has caused this reaction, he is graced with the vision of Constance advancing on them like a goddess of vengeance.

Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are sparkling, and while Athos has always thought her beautiful, he cannot help but find her rather intimidating as well. He can hardly blame d’Artagnan when he seems to develop a sudden trouble to breathe.

“Madame Bonacieux,” Athos greets her, and discovers that close up she looks more like a goddess of annoyance than one of vengeance, “what brings you here so early in the morning?”

“You’re missing your peacock,” she informs him with a hiss, “he's _nesting_ in my bed.”

Next to Athos d’Artagnan makes a strangled noise, and Constance rolls her eyes and blushes. “In your old room, you fool!”

“He’s at your place then?” Porthos asks – interrupts the bashful eye-contact she tries to establish with d’Artagnan after that point has been clarified. “Was he there all night?”

“Yes,” Constace groans, and her annoyance only seems to grow, “he came by yesterday evening looking as though someone had _died_ , and at first I thought he must’ve been drunk because he kept asking me for two new blankets _with lace lining_ as though he could afford such a thing, and then he just refused to go home when I wouldn’t humour him!”

She sighs and looks terribly exhausted all of a sudden. “Will you please come and talk to him? He won’t tell me what happened, and he keeps looking so _sad_ –“ She clears her throat and quickly finds back her usual vigour. “He can just be glad my husband isn’t home, or he would have been thrown out on his ear already!”

“We will come at once,” Athos decides, so strangely relieved by her account of Aramis’ behaviour that he does not want to waste a single moment more, “Please lead the way.”

She promptly sweeps her skirt around and marches off, and Athos makes haste to follow.

“I don’t understand,” he hears d’Artagnan whisper behind him. “Why blankets?”

“He always buys one when he gets his heart broken,” Porthos replies in a grave voice. “To have somethin’ to hold and keep him warm when he’s alone.”

D’Artagnan makes a compassionate noise while Athos widens his eyes and nearly stumbles.

 _He did not know_ – had never thought about the blankets in this context.

His heart aches for Aramis even more at the knowledge, and he bites his lip, hastens to walk beside Constance instead of behind her. He feels out of balance again, but different this time.

This time it is Aramis and Aramis alone he is worried for. “Apart – apart from the sadness, how did he look to you?”

“Well, he refused to eat,” she huffs, hides her worry and concern behind anger the way she always does. “And he kept smiling in this really tragic way, trying to fool me into believing that everything was alright – until I threatened to throw him out and then –“ She looks at Athos, her eyes huge and troubled in her pale face. “I have never seen him so hopeless, Athos.”

“I will take care of it,” he promises her – without thinking, without one second of doubt or hesitation; because his heart does not allow him to be careful and secretive. It beats so hard against the cage of his ribs as though it wants to shatter the bones, “You need not worry for him, I assure you.”

She stares at him, wonderingly, and a vague smile creeps into her eyes. “Is that so?”

Thankfully they have reached her house by then, and Athos might just get away with not giving an answer to that. He allows his impatience to show on his face and be heard in his voice, “Please let him know that we are here for him.”

“Heh,” she says, pulls him inside and towards the back stairs and yells, “I have brought you visitors, Aramis!”

She lets go of Athos to lift up her skirt for walking up the stairs, and he is torn between waiting for her return and hurrying to Aramis’ side as fast as possible.

Thankfully, Porthos and d’Artagnan seem to be of one mind regarding that question. They push him up the staircase with gentle determination, their hands on his shoulders as unshakeable as they are steadying.

When the three of them reach the top, Constance is awaiting them next to an open door.

Athos is not strong enough to resist such an invitation. He hastens forward and tries to ignore the hasty beating of his heart, the way his blood appears to be on fire.

Fear flares up inside him – the fear that Aramis might not want to see him after all – but he ignores it. He has come too far to turn back now.

Constance steps to the side when he passes her, briefly touches his arm, but Athos barely notices.

His eyes are on the huddled figure in the bed, covered by at least three blankets, and for a long moment all he can do is stare.

He loves Aramis so much; the knowledge alone suffices to take away his breath and fill his chest with light instead. 

He knows he should say something, should let Aramis know that he is no longer alone. He opens his mouth and wets his bottom lip, closes his eyes for a moment.

Porthos is standing directly behind him, is standing so close that Athos feels his heat and his calming presence, and can breathe a little easier for it.

Still his chest constricts when he clears his throat and his heart jumps up into it. It feels as though it jumps out towards his tongue when he speaks, and that must be what makes his voice sound so rough, “Aramis.”

A long moment of silence follows.

Athos waits, balls his hands into fists, just to relax and stretch them again.

“She said she was going out to buy thread,” is the muffled reply that finally comes from beneath the stronghold of blankets. “I thought I could trust her.”

He sounds sad although he is trying very hard to do everything but, and Porthos touches Athos’ shoulder, pushes him forward and into the room.

Athos gives in to the gentle pressure, takes one step and then another. He neither falters nor stumbles, walks around the bed and crouches down where a strand of dark hair is peeking out from between the bedding.

His chest is overflowing with light, and his voice barely recognizable as his own anymore. “Aramis.”

Aramis does not move, does not lift his blanket so he can look at Athos. Instead he stays right where he is, hidden from sight, enveloped in darkness. “I’m so sorry she made you come here,” he whispers, “she shouldn’t have told you. You shouldn’t have to –“

Athos leans in then, is unable to hold out any longer. He pulls the blanket to the side and drags Aramis out of his hiding place, pulls him into his arms. “Aramis, _please_.”

Just _holding_ Aramis again makes Athos so happy that his throat locks up on him.

His reward for his impatient action is a surprised gasp followed by stunned silence.

Then Aramis seems to understand at last. He throws his arms around Athos’ neck and clings to him, pushes his face into Athos’ neck. “I thought – I thought I had lost –“

“You have not,” Athos interrupts him, his own voice just as rough as Aramis’, “you never will.”

There is another gasp, from the direction of the door, and then hurried footsteps walking away from it.

Athos does not care. He keeps holding Aramis, keeps holding him close, his fingertips pressing into Aramis’ back so hard that he will in all probability leave bruises.

“I think she saw,” Aramis murmurs in a broken little voice, and Athos kisses his forehead, rubs his hands over Aramis’ back, is so glad to be holding him again that he does not care about anything else.

“Yes, I think so too.”

Aramis pushes closer to him, moves closer until he is halfway off the bed and on Athos’ lap. “I’m so sorry for what I did, Athos – I never meant for you to – I didn’t realize –“

“I know,” Athos interrupts him gently. “Please do not blame yourself.”

Porthos chooses that moment to clear his throat, and Athos hears him walk over from the door. “If you ever run away like you did last night again –“ He crouches down next to Athos, brushes the hair out of Aramis’ face and kisses him soundly on the lips. “I yelled at the Whelp because of you.”

Aramis turns his head, turns his face into Porthos’ palm and sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Porthos murmurs, fails to hold back a chuckle, “apparently we all are.” He rubs his thumb over Aramis’ forehead, very gently, “Should’ve taken better care of you yesterday.”

Aramis moves so he is half on Porthos’ lap as well, pulling half of his blankets off the bed with him. “I shouldn’t have run away.”

Athos briefly looks towards the open doorway, sees it’s empty, and brushes his lips to Aramis’ mouth. “We missed you last night.”

What comes over Aramis’ lips in reaction to that might just be the sweetest noise of surprise Athos has ever heard. It makes Aramis sound as helpless as a little animal, defenceless and maybe even happy to be so.

So Athos drags his lips to the left corner of Aramis’ mouth to place another kiss there … and then to the right corner, for good measure. When he raises his voice again it sounds appropriately soft – he does not want to spook Aramis after all. “We missed you this morning too.”

Aramis whimpers, exhales softly against Athos’ cheek, and clings to him with rather more force than necessary. “Porthos,” he says, sounding feeble and accusing at once, and Porthos chuckles.

“What? I’m with ‘im on that one. You brought this on yourself.” He strokes his hand through Aramis’ hair. “Foolish bugger that you are.”

“Will you come home with us?” Athos asks, feeling too elated to even attempt a drawl. “Please? We want you to.”

“Yes, of course I will,” Aramis murmurs. He pushes his face into Athos’ neck, presses a kiss to his pulse and takes a deep, greedy breath. “I imagine Constance can’t wait to be rid of me anyway.”

“She seemed a bit annoyed with you,” Porthos agrees in a rather sober voice, tweaks a strand of Aramis’ hair between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I think mostly because you wouldn’t tell her what was wrong.”

“Yes, well, I could hardly do so without revealing … everything,” Aramis pouts, “and even if I could, I was too ashamed to –“

“Please do not be ashamed,” Athos interrupts him – so fervently that Aramis raises his head to look up at him, blinking in confusion. “You did nothing wrong my friend.”

“Now kiss again,” Porthos suggests gleefully, “and then we go out for breakfast.”

Aramis smiles at that, very softly, but then he brings some distance between Athos and himself. He gathers his blankets around himself and sits back on the edge of the bed – looks so miserable so suddenly that it takes a lot out of Athos not to immediately drag him back into his arms.

“Athos, I – I was the one who caused all this,” Aramis says in a broken whisper. “I _asked_ you to stay and watch. If I hadn’t been so selfish and stupid it wouldn’t have happened.” He takes Athos’ hand into his and pulls it to his lips, kisses his knuckles. “So please don’t tell me that I did nothing wrong. I am glad that I am forgiven, but I did wrong – very wrong – and won’t do anything like that ever again, I promise.”

Porthos growls a little, gets up from his crouching position and sits next to Aramis on the bed, puts his arm around him. “So you think Athos is wrong to ask for what he likes in bed?”

Aramis’ eyes fly up to his face, astonished. “Of course not!”

“You think I’m wrong for enjoyin’ a little cuddle now and then?” Porthos persists, and Aramis’ eyes narrow in suspicion.

“What is this?”

“This is me tellin’ you that you’re a fool,” Porthos grunts. He drops a kiss on Aramis’ head to take the sting out of the words. “You should be able to recognize the signs by now.”

“I think Porthos is getting tired of telling us the same things over and over again,” Athos explains gently. He rubs his thumb over the back of Aramis’ hand, enjoys the simple gesture, the connection between them. “You must know that I put quite a strain on him yesterday already.”

“Then we should indeed take him out for breakfast,” Aramis replies, fondly teasing. His eyes go soft as they rest on Porthos’ face. “That will lighten his mood.”

“Only once you’ve gotten it into your thick skull that you’re not the one to blame for this,” Porthos growls. “I’m not eatin’ anythin’ until you do!”

This time Aramis’ smile looks a little bit brighter, and he reaches out with his free hand to comb his fingers through Porthos’ curls. “Then tell me how it isn’t my fault, and I will try to listen.”

“According to him, we either share the blame, or let it go completely,” Athos says earnestly, while Porthos stays quiet and closes his eyes, turns his head into Aramis’ caress. “For you did not demand, but merely asked, while Porthos and I both said yes … If I am completely honest with you I was quite grateful that it seemed so important to you that I stayed and watched while it happened.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Aramis whispers, seeming quite unaware that he is speaking out loud. “I didn’t want you to feel left out.”

Athos’ chest constricts at the words, and then he breathes as easily as he ever has. “It would be unnatural of me to blame you for that.”

Aramis smiles at Athos; and it grows, that smile, slowly but surely, until it illuminates his whole face, shines out of his eyes with a brightness that finds its way into Athos’ chest and lights it up from inside.

“You’re speaking for Porthos now?” Aramis teases, and even his voice succeeds in brightening Athos’ disposition and bringing a smile to his face.

“On occasion.” Athos turns his head to look at Porthos, and finds out that he is being watched. “His wisdom is catching, it seems.”

“I’m gonna bite you,” Porthos threatens with a grumble. “Both of you.”

Aramis grins and kisses him, infinitely sweet and gentle. “Breakfast it is then!” he proclaims, “I am actually feeling rather starved, to be honest.” He moves out of his nest of blankets and off the bed rather abruptly, and looks around for his discarded uniform.

Athos gets up to sit beside Porthos to watch Aramis get dressed, leans into Porthos with his whole weight when he puts his arm around his shoulders.

“See,” Porthos murmurs into his ear, “everythin’ turned out fine.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, and he feels so relieved suddenly that it leaves him as weak as a new-born kitten, “yes, everything is fine.”

Porthos holds him through it, and Aramis returns to them soon enough – goes down to his knees in front of them and puts his head in Porthos’ lap, sighs deeply and heart-felt. “This is nice too.”

“I still want my breakfast,” Porthos tells him while he combs his fingers through Aramis’ hair and teases another sigh out of him, “so let’s go down to Constance and tell her thanks for lookin’ after you last night, eh?”

Aramis does not move for a long moment, stays where he is and closes his eyes.

Athos looks down at him, still leaning into Porthos’ warmth, and eventually bends forward to drop a kiss on Aramis’ head. “Come on then, Aramis – get up.”

Only then does Aramis move and get back onto his feet, and Athos moves as well, stands up to stand in front of him, brushes Aramis’ hair out of his face with both hands.

Aramis looks tired, Athos notices now, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, but he smiles when Athos touches him, honest and warm.

“Ready?” Athos asks, and Aramis nods – and then he suddenly pushes forward, throws his arms around Athos and holds on to him with desperate force.

Athos stumbles backwards, but his arms come up to close around Aramis, and that prevents them both from toppling onto the bed. They sway for a moment, and Athos closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can feel the gentle pressure of Porthos’ hand on his back, steadying them – and feels complete again.

“Athos,” Aramis whispers into his ear, and his chest expands against Athos’ under hard, hasty breaths, “Athos – Athos –“

“I know,” Athos whispers, “I was afraid, too.” Aramis makes a helpless noise and presses into him, and Athos rubs his hands over his back. “It is alright, I promise you, Aramis, it is alright.”

“No need to buy new blankets,” Porthos says from Athos’ right side, and Aramis whimpers – causes Porthos to step around them and close the circle, to put Aramis between them and hold him as safe as he could ever be.

“She told you that, did she?” Aramis murmurs, and he sounds embarrassed enough that Porthos makes him turn around and look up into his eyes.

“Lace-linin’,” he says, his hand under Aramis’ chin. From his place behind Aramis Athos can see the expression in his eyes, warm and proud, “a bit excessive of you, eh?”

Aramis does not say anything in return. He lifts his hand, strokes his fingertips over the collar of Porthos’ shirt – blindingly white against the leather of his uniform – and stares at it, lost in contemplation.

Athos recognizes the stitching on Porthos’ collar – a little cross next to the lace – and bites his lip, understands quite perfectly.

“To keep him safe,” Aramis had said when Athos caught him doing it, so many years ago, Porthos’ shirt in his lap, “You haven’t even noticed yours, have you?”

Athos knows that all of Porthos’ shirts have that same little cross now, that all of his own have it too. He never knows how or when Aramis does it – only caught him that one time – but the cross will eventually appear on every new shirt, sooner rather than later.

“I wanted something to remember you by,” Aramis says after a long moment, very softly, as if he is talking to himself, “something special.”

“We are still with you,” Athos reminds him, leans in and brushes a kiss behind Aramis’ left ear, “you do not need the blankets. We will keep you warm instead.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees in a grateful voice, “you always do.”

They pull him out of the room then, walk him down the stairs and into the kitchen where Constance and d’Artagnan are in the middle of a rather painful looking attempt at civil conversation.

They fall quiet and turn to face them as soon as they enter, and Constance steps forward, right in front of Aramis, grabs his lapels and _shakes_ him. “Don’t you ever do that again!” He blinks at her, confused but smiling, and she slaps his shoulder with more fondness than force. “You made me worry, you inconsiderate fool!”

“Yeah, he does that,” Porthos says in a sympathetic voice, “you better get used to it.”

Aramis takes her hands into his and holds them for a moment before he raises the right one to his lips and brushes a kiss over her knuckles. “Thank you for giving me shelter, Madame.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls her hands away – pulls him into her arms instead, and gives him a hug. “You better thank me for getting your friends to come and get you – you needed that far more than you needed _shelter_.”

“Ah, you know me so well,” he says with one of his quick smiles, and she releases him from her arms, tilts her head and lifts one brow looking up at him.

“I wonder.”

He flushes, ever so lightly, and Constance smirks, glances at Athos out of the corner of her eye. “I assume you’ll take him off my hands now?”

“Gladly,” Athos replies with a drawl. “We have more experience with handling him anyway.”

Her smirk widens. “I bet.”

Athos is now rather certain that she _knows_ , and it does not even upset him all that much. He actually smiles when Porthos’ elbow hits him in the side, and Porthos raises both eyebrows in an expression of alarm.

“Thank you for everything,” he says earnestly. “We shall find it difficult to pay you back in a befitting manner.”

His words soften her expression, and she shrugs. “Odette is looking much better recently – I’d say we’re even.”

Athos smiles at her and she smiles back, and Porthos clears his throat. “Did she go back to ‘im?”

“No,” Constance says, and her eyes wander towards d’Artagnan, so soft and sad “she did not.”

“Good,” Porthos grunts, sounding satisfied.

Constance is still looking at d’Artagnan, while he is looking back at her, transfixed.

This time Aramis is the one to clear his throat. “We better take our leave of you now – except for d’Artagnan. He’ll help you clean up upstairs!”

He looks _immensely_ pleased with this idea, and Athos cannot quite hide his smirk – nor can Porthos stifle a chuckle.

D’Artagnan smiles too, ducks his head and blushes – looks up at Constance through his lashes. “I would like to.”

For a moment she looks torn, heartbroken even, but then she nods and shrugs her shoulders, ever so lightly. “I won’t chase you off.”

Aramis is rather quick to drag Athos and Porthos out of the house after that, barely allows Porthos to say goodbye.

He walks between Athos and Porthos on the way back to the garrison, keeps his head down against the icy wind – keeps smiling softly to himself.

Athos and Porthos glance at each other behind the rim of his hat, and Porthos looks at ease in a way he has not for a while, looks so truly happy that Athos longs to kiss him.

Part of that desire must be visible on his face, for Porthos winks at him, and takes hold of Aramis’ arm, squeezes it gently – causes Aramis to turn his head and look at him. “Yes?”

“Eh, nothin’ really,” Porthos murmurs, “I’m just … I’m just really glad how everythin’ worked out.”

Aramis’ smile widens, and he turns his head to look at Athos. “We put him through quite a lot, don’t we?”

“Eh, that’s not what I meant!” Porthos says, sounding contrite, “I’m just –“

“We know,” Athos interrupts him softly. “Trust us, my friend – we know.”

“Yes, and we love you for it,” Aramis adds with a bright smile, honest and sparkling, “very much indeed.”

Porthos loses his nervous expression and smiles as well, helpless in his affection. “Yeah, well … I’m glad about that too.”

His words make Athos long for privacy once more, and he sees Aramis bite his lip and shake his head – knows these signs far too well – tells Aramis what he has just as much reason to tell himself, “Control yourself.”

“Ah, I will,” Aramis exclaims with a startled laugh, “but not thanks to your behaviour!”

“Eh, you keep blamin’ us for bein’ nice to you, and I don’t really understand why you would do that,” Porthos teases him. “It’s almost as though you’d rather have us treat you poorly.”

“You’re a menace,” Aramis tells him fondly. “The biggest one I ever met.”

Porthos chuckles heartily, evidently pleased with the title. Athos is almost glad that they have reached the garrison by now, and he is no longer tempted to pull both Aramis and Porthos into a dark alley.

… Although that is not really true. In fact it is not true at all. He is still tempted. Very tempted even … just less likely to give in.


	17. Chapter 17

The garrison is nearly empty when they arrive, and the Captain steps out onto the balustrade as soon as the three of them enter the yard. The frown on his face is clearly visible even over a distance, and he orders them into his office with an impatient jerk of his chin.

“Ah, he looks happy,” Aramis murmurs under his breath as he climbs the staircase in Athos’ wake.

Porthos sounds audibly uncomfortable when he replies, “I just hope it’s not because of that bloody wine. Because if I’m quite honest I have no idea if there’s anythin’ left we could do.”

Athos does not add anything to that, mainly because they have reached the Captain’s office by now. He opens the door to step inside, and Treville greets them with a brief smile and a nod. “Gentlemen.”

Porthos sighs in relief at this small sign that the Captain is not displeased with them – that something else has soured his mood – and a fond smile tugs at Athos’ lips. “What can we do for you, Captain?”

Treville sighs and rubs his forehead, looks tired all of a sudden. “There has been a murder at the palace – one of the pages was found dead this morning.” He falls silent for a moment, and looks up at Athos from his place behind the desk as though he wishes he had pleasant news for once. “In the wine cellar. Quite a number of wine casks appear to have vanished.”

Athos looks to the side, where Aramis has raised his brows in visible interest. “Hardly a coincidence, I’d say.”

“Hardly,” the Captain agrees. He scans their ranks and frowns. “Where is d’Artagnan?”

“We left him attending to some quite important business,” Aramis replies with one of his quick smiles. “Do you wish us to collect him ere we move on to the palace?”

“No, there is no time for that – you are expected and somewhat late already.” Treville sighs. “You can inform him of the situation when you return. Now go.”

They do not waste any time, take their leave with a quick bow and march out. Aramis is behind Athos on the stairs, and Athos hears him sigh – looks at him over his shoulder. “Had you hoped for some peace and quiet?”

Aramis smiles, but it is a weak smile, and it does not quite reach his eyes. “A moment of privacy perhaps.”

Porthos makes an encouraging noise and pats Aramis’ shoulder when they reach the bottom of the stairs. “It’ll come soon enough. How are you holdin’ up – you want me to saddle your horse for you?”

Aramis’ smile widens and gains some brightness, looks honest at last. “That won’t be necessary – but maybe Athos would like you to help him out?”

Porthos chuckles and glances at Athos, and Athos favours him with a quick grin. “Shall I say it, or do you want to?”

“You’re better with words,” Porthos replies with a wink, and lengthens his stride so he is the first to arrive at the stable and can open the door for them.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Aramis inquires in a suspicious tone of voice as he steps inside. “I gather Athos does not need your assistance as much as I do?”

“It is merely that you look rather tired,” Athos soothes him. “Much more than I do, I suppose.”

Aramis ducks his head at that, and smiles at the ground. “Ah. Yes. Well.” He pouts a little, and the dim light inside the stable casts deep shadows over his features. He looks worn, all of a sudden, but at the same time immensely touchable. “I did not sleep that well. Or at all, really.”

It would cost Athos more strength than he has not to reach out and brush his fingertips over Aramis’ cheek. So he gives in; and it is worth it if only for the soft look of surprise that Aramis gives him in return.

“You will sleep much better tonight,” Athos says quietly, “I promise you.”

Porthos clears his throat then, and Aramis blinks – bites his lip and takes a deep breath. “Yes, I think so too.”

They make quick work of readying the horses after that, but Aramis does not stop looking over at Athos. He keeps glancing in his direction, and each look feels like a touch of sunlight on Athos’ skin.

Athos yearns to be alone with him and Porthos, wants to offer Aramis peace and quiet – wants to cradle him in his arms, comfort his sleep and watch over him just like Porthos would.

The ride to the palace is a hasty one – as much as a ride through the streets of Paris could ever be. They leave the horses to the palace’s stable boys and hurry towards the royal wine cellar in the wake of a menial who appears to be as snobbish as he is pale.

Few servants have ever dared to accuse them of tardiness before – no matter how long they had to wait for their arrival.

While Porthos bared his teeth at the man and achieved the usual results, Aramis actually wilted under the scorn. Although Athos is aware that his friend would not be quite this meek had he slept a little more, he still feels protective – still itches to dole out some sort of revenge.

He bites down on the urge, takes a deep breath and dons a professional demeanor. Getting into squabbles with royal servants is simply not _done_ , no matter how much he might want to.

They reach the wine cellar, and Athos begins to understand at least in part why this servant was so very upset about their delayed arrival.

The scene awaiting them is gruesome. Blood is spattered across one of the walls, and has seeped into the cracks in the stone floor. Although there is no body lying on the ground anymore, its absence offers hardly any relief.

“The body was removed to the mortuary,” the servant says unprompted, his voice hollow, “but since I was advised to leave everything else as it is …” he gestures to the pool of blood and shudders, “I did.”

“Thank you,” Athos says, surprised by the simple honesty in his tone. “You can leave us alone, if you prefer, but I would like to talk to the one who found the victim once we are done here – was it you?”

The man nods, and Athos realizes that his paleness might not be altogether natural. “Yes, I found him this morning.”

“Then please wait for us outside,” Athos says quietly, and the servant leaves – looks relieved to be allowed to do so.

“Well, we can assume it wasn’t a musket that killed ‘im,” Porthos growls once they are alone. “With this much blood on the wall it looks like they cut his neck – maybe hit him on the head.” He inspects the wall in question and grimaces. “Went high.”

“We can have a look at the body later, if necessary,” Athos says and crouches down beside the blood-pool on the floor, “He must have bled out fast. What I want to know is what kinds of wine-caskets were taken.”

He straightens and steps away from the scene of the murder, takes care not to disturb the pool of blood. Lamps hang on each side of the door leading outside, and Athos takes one of them, uses it to light his way between the rows and rows of wine.

The King’s cellar is well-filled – but not as well as it could be. Quite a number of shelves turn out to be suspiciously empty. More than Athos deems altogether normal in fact.

He hears Aramis’ step behind him and turns his head, lifts the lamp in his hand a little higher, points it at an empty spot on the shelf, the dust clearly disturbed rather recently. “What do you think?”

“I think our victim surprised a thief,” Aramis replies with a sigh, and looks over at Porthos when he arrives with the second lamp. “Any other suggestions?”

“Yours is good enough for me,” Porthos says and turns in a half-circle to get a better overview over the room. “They took a lot.”

“I wonder how the spoiled wine fits into this,” Aramis muses, “If it does fit into this at all.”

“I would find it hard to believe that our two wine-related crimes are not related to each other,” Athos drawls. He watches Porthos’ face in the lamplight, watches him narrow his eyes in concentration. “What? Have you found something?”

Porthos frowns and lifts his chin – goes to his tiptoes for a moment. “’M not sure. I think there’s somethin’ wedged behind those –“ he stops talking and steps forward, walks over to the southern wall – reaches up on the highest shelf. At first Athos’ mind does not comprehend what is pulled forward, but then he recognizes a walking stick.

It looks well-made when scrutinized up close, black with a customized silver handle cast into the shape of a rose – a design Athos privately finds objectionable. What is even more objectionable is the blood smears all over it and what appears to be skin, adorned with a few strands of hair.

“Head-wound it is,” Porthos says in a mildly disgusted voice. “What kind of idiot leaves the murder weapon just lyin’ around like this?”

“An agitated one, I imagine,” Aramis replies with a shrug. “What – too easy for you? We still have to find the owner you know – it’s not over yet.”

“Yeah, yeah – it’s just so stupid,” Porthos grumbles. His complaining teases a little smile out of Athos – he quite enjoys the little moments when Porthos gets offended by a villain’s lack of finesse. “I bet you ten sous we’ll find the murderer easily enough with this – and all because he couldn’t clean up after himself, the twat.”

Athos and Aramis share a grin at that, and Aramis pats Porthos on the shoulder, “I don’t bet against you anymore – you always win.”

Porthos grumbles once more, this time because he does not even get any money out of this, and Athos smiles at him, “Come outside. I do not think we shall find anything else here – we have been spoiled as it is already.”

“Spoiled’s the right word, yeah,” Porthos murmurs under his breath. He hands Athos the stick and walks back to the door, hangs his lamp back where he took it from. Once that is done he restores Athos’ as well, and then they walk back into the winter sun.

The air outside the cellar smells fresh and sharp, and Athos prefers it indefinitely to the stink of blood he has left behind.

The servant is waiting for them, just like Athos asked him to, and he eyes the walking stick in Athos’ hand with interest – until he discovers the blood and hair on the handle. “What happened to Monsieur Malin’s walking stick?”

Porthos makes a disgusted noise, and Athos very nearly smirks. “You know the owner of this stick?”

“Yes,” the man replies, while he carefully avoids looking at the handle, “the rose the silver has been cast into – it is Monsieur Malin’s favourite flower. He … he is responsible for the gardens, you know.”

“We do now, thanks to you,” Athos replies with a drawl and the suggestion of a bow. “Do you have any idea what might have brought Monsieur Malin into the wine-cellar?”

“No, none at all!” the agitated servant exclaims. “You … you do not think that he – but Pedro was his nephew!”

“The dead valet?” Aramis asks, one brow raised, and Athos glances at Porthos to see him roll his eyes. “He was related to the owner of this walking stick?”

“Yes!” the man replies, and now he is not pale anymore, now his cheeks are flushed to an alarming degree, “and when I went to alert him of his nephew’s demise I could not find him this morning!”

That provokes a disgusted grunt from Porthos, and he huffs. “Typical.”

Aramis bites his lip, and his eyes are brimming with laughter when he looks at Athos. “I’m just glad I did not take that bet.”

“I beg your pardon?” the servant stammers, and Athos lays a calming hand on his shoulder. “Nothing of consequence. I thank you very much, my good man – you have been of great assistance. If you would convey us to Monsieur Malin’s lodgings now, we would be very much indebted to you – I assume they are on the premises?”

The man merely nods, turns and walks off, and they make haste to follow him.

“If you would at least try to hide your disappointment, I would be grateful,” Athos hisses at Porthos, and directs a glare at Aramis when he chuckles. “Your behaviour does not help at all!”

Porthos grins at him, and Aramis winks, and Athos heaves a sigh. “Incorrigible.”

It hits him suddenly how very remarkable this exchange really is. Both Aramis and Porthos have seen him at his weakest. He has been on his knees for both of them, _has spread his legs for both of them_ , but still they treat him with respect.

They take his orders the same way they always have. Nothing has changed.

The nature of their affection for him might have changed, but it did not lessen his value in their eyes.

Aramis never even teased him for his preferences in the bedroom. They have remained private, have remained safe.

Athos is not sure that he can ever pay them back for this.

The servant leads them through a number of draughty passages until they arrive at their destination. At their request he opens the door to Malin’s private rooms – and they find them tossed, clothing spread all over the floor.

“Someone packed in a haste,” Aramis comments in a gleeful voice.

Athos looks heavenward, “I imagine this means we will have to search the harbour district. Again.” He nods to the bewildered servant. “Thank you. You have been of great help. If you or anyone else could accompany us to identify Monsieur Malin –“

“Not me,” the overwhelmed man gasps, “but – but his apprentice would be –“

“Rather perfect,” Aramis interrupts him with a smile. “We shall await him at the stables!”

The man promptly rushes off, so they have to find their way back to the stables themselves.

“You know – I wonder how the gardener got access to the cellar,” Porthos muses while they hurry down one long corridor, basked in winter-sunlight. “Shouldn’t there be someone else in charge of the wine?”

“There is,” Athos agrees, “but I doubt that Monsieur Malin is something as lowly as a mere gardener – not with a walking stick capped in silver.”

“Yeah, well – you know what I mean,” Porthos growls. “I’d like to know where the wine guy is, and what he has to say to all of this.”

“I shall ask him,” Athos decides, “you go to the harbour and make sure Malin does not flee the country, and I will try to find out what happened to the sommelier.”

Porthos frowns and pouts in confusion, and Athos smiles at him. “The wine guy.”

That earns him a grin, and he knows that Porthos will remember the term, will make a mental note of it in case he ever needs it again.

 

Athos parts from Porthos and Aramis, leaves them to find their way back to the stables and goes in search of someone who can assist him in finding the royal sommelier.

He alerts the palace guard, instructs them to search the grounds, and they eventually find the man bound and gagged in a tool-shack in the gardens – half dead and choking on the fabric stuffed into his mouth.

He is too weak to talk, and Athos leaves him to the care of one of his underlings, marches back to the wine-cellar to clear his head and maybe find some more clues.

The sun is shining quite brightly for once, and Athos spends the walk through the frost-covered gardens musing about his inherent ability to work alone despite the fact that he has come to rely on Aramis and Porthos in all other aspects of his life.

His mind does still work clearly enough, despite its tendency to go blank when Porthos puts a restraining hand on his neck, is still sharp enough when needed.

His enjoyment of being controlled and told what to do has not rendered him helpless, and his affection for his friends does not leave him unable to function without them.

Athos cannot be certain, but he is starting to believe that it has in fact quite the opposite effect on him.

He enters the cellar and stands with his back to the door – looks around, tries to come up with a theory for what could have happened besides the one he already has.

The blood drying on the floor and on the wall does tell its own tale, but it is quite lacking in the description of details and overall a rather poor storyteller.

It is uncertain whether the sommelier will survive to add those details – equally uncertain whether Malin will be found and brought back to the palace, although Athos has every confidence in Aramis and Porthos.

He would like to put an end to this sad story by putting the man responsible for the crimes committed behind bars.

Since reality does not always work out the way he’d like it to, Athos tries to keep his expectations low, and his gaze sharp. Still the cellar does not offer him any revelations.

Athos sighs and steps outside again, nearly walks into the servant from earlier. The man is carrying cleaning supplies with him, and graces Athos with the suggestion of a smile.

“I believe I never asked you your name,” Athos says, and the man indicates a bow, hindered by the items in his arms. “It’s Bastien, Monsieur.”

Athos inclines his head and directs a questioning gaze at him. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

Bastien seems to have found his equilibrium by now, even manages a small smile. “Not at all, Monsieur.”

So Athos accompanies him downstairs and stands to the side while he mops up the blood with a vacant expression on his face.

Athos’ questions reveal that the dead valet was new to the King’s employ, while Malin and the sommelier Banville have been in the palace for years, and close friends for all this time.

This suggests that the two of them were in it together – and for quite a while at that, given the deprived state of the royal wine-cellar.

The dead valet probably surprised them in their dealings, but Athos still cannot figure out how the Spanish wine might fit into this – why it was brought into the city to poison the inhabitants of Paris.

He thanks Bastien and moves away from his position by the door, takes one of the lamps with him to have a look around the cellar once more.

This time Athos goes further, looks at every remaining casket. The deeper he progresses into the room the older the caskets get. Most of them must have been purchased by Louis’ father, maybe even his father before him.

An odd smell assaults Athos when he gets close to the rear wall and he stops, straightens, and takes a deep breath. Mould, he decides, and moves the hand holding the lamp. He lifts and lowers it until he finds an empty shelf close to the ground, covered in green mucus. The dust surrounding the empty spots was disturbed rather recently, and Athos has his explanation for the poisoned citizens.

It was _expensive_ Spanish wine after all, not cheap like they thought it to be.

A conscientious man would have thrown it out.

A greedy man would have sold it to the poor.

Athos makes a disgusted noise and calls Bastien to him – shows him the empty shelf and instructs him how to get rid of the mould. Then he leaves.

Only the persons involved can give him answers to his remaining questions. Thus he returns to the ailing Banville in the hopes of finding him alive and awake.

Luck favours him. Banville regards him out of frightened eyes when Athos enters his room, and from him Athos hears the whole story – how they stole wine from the King and sold it to fill their own pockets, how Malin’s nephew caught them arguing about the poisoned wine and paid for it with his life.

Athos makes no attempt to hide his disgust and leaves the man to battle with his conscience as soon as he has heard enough.

His first action after leaving Banville’s room is to share his information with the Captain of the palace guard. Once that is done he walks right into a servant who tells him that Aramis and Porthos have returned to the palace and asked for him.

Athos smiles at the man, brighter than he probably should, and thanks him ere he marches off.

Thankfully no-one else is around when Athos meets Aramis and Porthos on his way to the stables. Their grins are rather too obvious, too fond and too warm, and their touches linger for too long.

It amuses Athos that he does not get in one word of his own while Aramis and Porthos tell him in chorus how and where they found Malin – that he tried to _hit_ Porthos with a stick he grabbed from an old biddy passing them by, and paid with a broken nose and a sprained wrist for that impertinence.

Aramis especially looks endearingly proud when they have finished their tale, and he informs Athos that they delivered Malin to the palace guard – had him locked up until further notice.

“Good,” Athos says quietly, managing to contain the grin pulling at his mouth, “you have done well.”

Aramis beams at him, and Porthos lifts his brow. “There’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ us.”

“Your fault entirely – you barely let me get out a word,” Athos drawls, does his very best to continue hiding his fond smile. “I have made some progress of my own while you were away.”

“Well, tell us!” Porthos urges him, while Aramis puts his hand on Athos’ arm and squeezes it gently, “Yes, please do tell us, _dearest_ Athos.”

Athos neither huffs nor chuckles although he is severely tempted. Instead he tells his story in a few concise words, and finishes by patting Porthos on the shoulder. “I do believe this means you have won your bet.”

“Course I have,” Porthos grins at him. “What now – what do we do? Who do we tell?”

“I have informed the authorities already,” Athos replies with a smile. “We are free to leave and bring our findings before the Captain. You did not happen to run into d’Artagnan on your way back to the palace per chance?”

“Heh, no,” Porthos replies and ducks his head, “you think he’s gonna be angry with us?”

“Maybe if he had missed out on the excitement of a proper fight,” Athos drawls as he starts walking towards the stables for what will hopefully be the last time today. “As it is I think he preferred Constance’s company over this.”

“We really should try to get them back together,” Aramis chimes in. “She misses him.”

“Yeah, well – you know what her husband threatened her with. She’s not gonna leave him,” Porthos growls in a frustrated voice. “She’s too nice. And as long as her husband’s alive she can’t marry d’Artagnan. She’d be his –“ he stops and clears his throat. ”It wouldn’t do. Not for her.”

Athos does not comment on the truth of this statement. Instead he asks one of the stable boys to bring them their horses. He glances at Aramis’ face while they wait, and instinctively steps closer to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. For Aramis looks more than just tired suddenly – looks ready to keel over. “When have you last eaten?”

Aramis smiles at him, and although it is a weak smile, it is warm enough to convince Athos of its honesty, “You’re spending too much time with Porthos.”

“Hardly,” Athos replies dryly, and just barely refrains from placing his hand on Aramis’ cheek. “Have you eaten anything since the stew the other night?”

“No,” Aramis says quietly, somehow managing to turn that one syllable into three. “I didn’t … I didn’t feel like it.”

“I hope you’re feelin’ like it now,” Porthos growls from his left. “Or else I’ll make you.”

Aramis grins and leans into him – lets Porthos take a little of his weight, closes his eyes for a moment. “You’d force me?”

“For your own good, yeah,” Porthos says in a rough voice. His eyes are on Athos when he continues. “I’d take care of you alright.”

“That you would,” Aramis agrees, bites his bottom lip and sighs. “What could possibly take these boys so long?”

Athos smirks, and Porthos grins at him. “Gettin’ impatient?”

Aramis turns and rests his forehead on Porthos’ shoulder, hides his face from the frost clinging to the air. The sunshine from earlier is still brightening the sky, casting its warmth on Aramis’ back and adding a warm glow to his hair beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m just so very tired.”

Porthos’ arm comes up to steady him, and he exchanges another look with Athos – one of worry and concern. “You gonna hold up until we’re home?”

“Yes of course,” Aramis murmurs into his shoulder, but he sounds drowsy, half-asleep already.

Athos is glad when the stable boys finally bring them their horses.

Aramis gets up into the saddle by utilizing sheer force of will as well as years of practise, and Athos watches him all the way home – watches how he sags in the saddle now and again, just to jerk back upright.

Aramis’ mare bears him safely to the garrison, and once there Porthos makes sure that Aramis reaches the frozen ground without coming to any harm.

Aramis smiles when he is all but lifted off his horse, and he does not complain, allows Porthos to manhandle him to his heart’s content. “One would think you’d’ve had enough of spoiling us by now.”

“Never,” Porthos replies earnestly, and lowers him to the ground. “I’ll take care of the horses,” he says, “you go tell the Captain.”

He shoves Aramis in Athos’ direction and grins when he takes Aramis off his hands with quiet implicitness.

Athos keeps a firm grip on Aramis’ elbow while they climb the stairs to the Captain’s office, and Aramis lets him, does not even comment on it this time around.

All he does when Athos looks at him is smile, which instils Athos with a burning desire to kiss him. It’s hard not to when Aramis looks so very touchable, when he stumbles into Athos with every other step, murmuring apologies and clinging to him with childlike trust.

Having to wait until they are alone with each other seems altogether too difficult suddenly. Athos is glad when they reach the Captain’s office – welcomes the sobering effect it has on him. He opens the door and drags Aramis inside in a manner he hopes is subtle enough for the Captain not to notice right away.

Treville looks up from whatever document he is studying, and his gaze promptly drops to Athos’ hand on Aramis’ arm. He lifts his brow in silent query, and Athos puts on a stoic expression which he hopes will hide his inner turmoil.

Treville huffs and smirks, which suggests success. Apparently the Captain does not mind when Athos drags his men around by their cuffs. “How is the murder investigation progressing?”

“It is finished,” Athos replies, and is graced with a proper smile.

“Report then.”

Athos keeps his tale short and to the point. It would worry him that Aramis refrains so completely from adding his own adventures to the story if he was not so very aware of his friend’s exhaustion.

Matters being as they are it is the Captain who raises a questioning brow at Athos when Aramis keeps so very notably quiet. Athos flashes him a look that transports that there is no need for alarm, and that suffices – Treville relaxes. “I would have preferred to clear the wine-business up without adding murder to the charges, but I do not think it would have been possible.” He nods at Athos. “You did well. You are freed from patrol for the next few days. If nothing unforeseen happens, you may consider yourselves on leave.”

Athos thanks him, as does Aramis – so marked lacking in enthusiasm that Treville raises another alarmed brow, and Athos drags Aramis outside before the Captain starts asking unnecessary questions.

He keeps a firm hold on Aramis’ shoulder on the way down the stairs to prevent him from falling, and Aramis turns his head – gazes at Athos with adoration in his eyes. He looks so exhausted in the greying afternoon light that Athos has to fight another silent battle with himself to keep a lid on his desire to pull Aramis into his arms.

In the end he succeeds, but only barely. When Porthos emerges from the stables he only has to take one brief look at Athos’ face to know what’s going on. “Take him home,” he says in a voice that manages to smile all by itself, “I’ll go and get us some food, yeah?”

It is on the tip of Athos’ tongue that they can come with him – that Porthos does not need to go alone. He does so far too often already.

Then Aramis stumbles forward and into Athos, and Porthos grins. “I better carry you home, eh?”

“I want to go with you,” Aramis mumbles, while his lids droop and he sways alarmingly to the side, “want to go with you and Athos.”

Porthos’ expression turns soft. “Yeah, kitten, we know – that’s not what I said at all.” He looks up and at Athos. “Can you get him home by yourself?”

“I think so, yes,” Athos replies, so quietly that it is almost a whisper. He takes a firm hold on Aramis’ upper arm. “You come with me, Aramis, you hear? Porthos will join us later.”

Aramis blinks at him, and a slow smile creeps onto his features. “Yes, I like that.”

Athos could kiss him, right then and there. “Come on then.” He leads Aramis out of the garrison and into the streets of Paris with a gentle touch to Aramis’ back, is careful to guide his friend around any obstacle that presents itself.

Aramis jerks his head upright and blinks a few times, and when he realizes that Porthos is not coming with them, a weak noise of distress escapes his throat. “But Porthos –“

“Porthos will be with us soon enough,” Athos soothes him in a gentle voice. “You know how he enjoys feeding us, do you not?”

Aramis blinks a few times more, and his insecure steps must look odd to an observer – must make him look drunk rather than tired. “He’s getting food?”

“You are half-asleep already,” Athos realizes. He pulls Aramis’ arm into his, so they are walking shoulder to shoulder, and his body absorbs most of Aramis’ swaying.

It takes time and determination to reach Aramis’ lodgings like that. Aramis gets rather affectionate when he is tired – or rather he loses all inhibition, and starts to whisper sweet nothings into Athos’ ear while they are still out in public.

He slurs his words, but his meaning is clear enough to Athos; it sends goose bumps down his back and hot shivers through his whole body.

Athos is glad beyond compare when their destination is finally in sight – especially since Aramis has taken to nuzzling into Athos’ hair and his neck, is attempting to press some kisses against his cold skin.

Athos is rather relieved that the sun is sinking already. It is dark enough that the few strangers passing them in the street should find it difficult to see what is going on.

He relieves Aramis of his key and unlocks the door without letting go of Aramis for even a moment – cranes his neck to avoid being kissed, and draws a whine out of Aramis by doing so.

“Just a moment,” Athos promises him, cannot help the smile warming his voice and his face. He pulls the door closer to its frame with a forceful jerk and smirks in satisfaction when the key finally turns in the lock. “Come on then.”

Aramis hangs on to him with both hands now, and Athos manoeuvres him inside the room and onto the bed. “There – we made it.”

Aramis is lying on his back, hat already lost and lying next to his head on the mattress. His hair spreads out on the bedding like black silk. “Kisses now?” he whispers, eyes half-closed while his lips remain parted, and Athos sees no reason why he should deny them the pleasure any longer.

He gives in, leans down and presses his mouth to Aramis’.

A soft noise of pleasure comes over Aramis’ lips as he opens them wider, and Athos needs no further invitation. He brushes the tip of his tongue over Aramis’ bottom lip, is rewarded with a needy gasp – and the touch of Aramis’ tongue against his own.

Aramis sighs, breathes into Athos’ mouth, and it feels as though Athos’ heart finally settles back into place. He closes his eyes, and holds himself up with both hands left and right of Aramis’ head, while he allows the rest of him to fall.

Athos had thought he had lost half of his home, but Aramis is still with him, is still his, and their kiss tastes all the sweeter for knowing it.

Aramis’ hands come up to grab the front of his jacket, and he tries to pull Athos down and on top of him – whines when Athos does not yield.

“Not yet,” Athos whispers. He brushes a kiss to the left corner of Aramis mouth and lifts his head, looks down at Aramis from beneath half-closed lids. “Let me light a fire first.”

Aramis’ eyes are closed, and he does not open them – he licks his lips and pulls the bottom one between his teeth for a moment before he speaks. “I … I want you – I need you to –“

“Anything,” Athos interrupts him gently, “I will do anything you desire, Aramis … just let me light that fire, yes?”

He follows the request with another kiss, sweet and soothing, and when he pulls back, Aramis has opened his eyes. “I love you.”

It seems he is too tired to hold anything back – gazes up at Athos in a way that implies that his chest is cracked wide open, that his heart is laid bare and vulnerable … could be easily crushed.

“I love you too,” Athos tells him in a soft voice – does not get up like he had planned but stays with Aramis a moment longer, brushes his fingers through Aramis’ hair.

“I’m so sorry that I hurt you,” Aramis whispers, and still he is looking up at Athos, still he is holding his gaze. “I’m sorry that I ran away.”

“It is alright,” Athos soothes him. “I understand why you did.”

Aramis closes his eyes, turns his head to the side and into Athos’ hand. “I thought I’d ruined everything.” He takes a deep breath and Athos notices with concern how it trembles through Aramis’ chest. “Of all the ways I’d imagined I would fail you, this … this hadn’t occurred to me.”

A tear runs down his cheek, and then another, and Athos lies down on the bed beside Aramis and pulls him into his arms. “You did not fail me, Aramis. What happened was outside of your control. Please do not cry.”

Aramis smiles at that, lifts his hand and wipes it over his cheek. “Ah, I’m sorry my friend. I’m just … I’m just so tired.”

Athos kisses his cheek and smiles against the warming skin. “Am I allowed to light that fire now, or will that result in more tears?”

His gentle teasing produces another smile, and Aramis cranes his neck, pulls Athos down by his collar and brings their mouths together. “I’ll try to be strong – but don’t take too long.”

Athos gets off the bed then, lights a fire in the dark and eventually returns to Aramis who is observing his approach out of sleepy eyes.

“I had better help you undress, yes?” Athos drawls, allows a fond grin to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Porthos will complain if I do not have you beneath the covers by the time he returns.”

Aramis makes a valiant attempt to sit up on his own, and Athos grabs his shoulders, pulls him up the rest of the way. Once that is accomplished and Aramis is fighting to keep his eyes open, Athos crouches down between Aramis’ knees and starts to unbutton his jacket.

“I never had something like this before,” Aramis murmurs.

When Athos looks up at him he looks asleep – is barely holding himself upright and in imminent danger of slumping forward. But asleep or not, it doesn’t stop Aramis from talking. “I don’t want to lose it.”

“You are in no danger of doing so,” Athos says quietly, and his fingers are somewhat unsteady on the lacing of Aramis’ trousers. “It took us long enough to get to this point – you will not lose Porthos and me so easily.”

Aramis grabs his hand and holds it in his own, squeezes it urgently. “No, Athos, you don’t … you don’t understand. I – I need you.”

Athos stills in all movement, except for that of his head – lifts it so he can look at Aramis’ face.

Aramis is looking at him again, eyes wide open and honest, afraid to be rebuked and hurt; but there is hope too – hope that Athos feels the same, that he won’t be ridiculed for his feelings.

“I need you just as much,” Athos hears himself say after a long moment; while his heart claws its way out of the cage of his ribs, climbs up his throat, “more than I can say.” He catches Aramis when he falls forward, pulls him into his arms and holds him close. “I need you, Aramis – I always will.”

The truth behind those words should frighten him, but it does not, not at all.

Aramis puts his arms around Athos and clings to him, pushes his face under Athos’ chin, covers his neck in kisses. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Very,” Athos agrees in a low voice, and a flush spreads down his back when Aramis’ lips brush over the scar on his neck, “we are both very lucky, are we not?”

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, and allows Athos to push him back up onto the bed. He holds still while Athos undresses him to his undergarments – barely even whines when Athos lets go of him to undress as well.

Athos keeps his eyes fixed on Aramis, strips out of everything but his smallclothes and joins him on the bed. Aramis barely gives him the time to grab a blanket before he pulls Athos over and on top of him – pushes his face back into Athos’ neck with a satisfied sigh.

“I want Porthos,” he mumbles, and Athos smiles – enjoys the sensation of Aramis holding on to him.

“You will have him soon enough.”

“Feels so good when – when both of you are holding me … he always – always makes you smile so nice.”

Aramis’ breath comes in warm huffs against Athos’ neck, and as much as Aramis slurs his words, Athos still understands him.

He is no longer afraid of the warmth expanding in his chest and causing his heart to grow in size. He is not afraid to call the cause for it by its name. He knows that he is in love. He has been for a long time.

“So do you,” he says, moves to lie on his side next to Aramis and strokes his hand over Aramis’ chest and down to his belly. “You and Porthos … you always knew how to.”


	18. Chapter 18

Porthos comes home to a scene of content. Athos is lying on his back on the bed, is humouring Aramis’ determination to use him as a cushion – is looking up at the ceiling while stroking his fingers through Aramis’ hair.

Porthos grins when he finds them in bed together, closes the door behind him as softly as he can.

Athos smiles at him when he advances on the bed, and Porthos takes off his hat, puts it on the windowsill, puts a satchel filled with food on the low table beside the bed. “He already asleep?”

“No,” Aramis murmurs in a sleepy voice, “I was waiting for you.”

Porthos leans over him to press a kiss to the mop of hair visible between Athos’ chest and the sheets, then he stretches to press a kiss to Athos’ mouth. “I brought somethin’ to eat.”

“I expected nothing less,“ Athos replies with a warm smile, and is rewarded with another kiss.

“He got me naked for you,” Aramis proclaims from beneath the blanket.

Porthos chuckles. “That was nice of him – very thoughtful too.”

Aramis makes a pleased little noise when Athos brushes his fingers through his hair – lifts his head into the touch and sighs.

Athos shares a glance with Porthos, and they grin – soft, helplessly fond.

They have known for years how Aramis behaves when he is tired, but this is new even for them.

“Give me a moment to get naked too,” Porthos whispers, still grinning. “I’ll be right with you.”

Aramis makes a confirming noise and presses closer to Athos, rubs his chin over Athos’ chest. “See, I _told_ you he makes you smile nice.”

He is not even looking at Athos, but the conviction in his voice is absolute nevertheless.

“I never said he did not,” Athos whispers. He tangles his fingers in Aramis’ hair and pulls him up for a kiss, “I merely said that you make me smile just as much.”

They kiss, and Aramis sighs, presses into Athos with his whole body – seems so desperate to be held and caressed that Athos aches with it.

He has been lonely for long enough to know the feeling quite intimately – that fear of losing someone dear even while holding them in your arms. So he pulls Aramis closer, holds him tighter, kisses him with a fervour that stems from compassion as much as it does from love.

It goes on forever, that kiss – ends only when Porthos sits down on the edge of the bed and rocks its frame by doing to.

“You wanna eat or go right to sleep?” he asks, and the way he phrases the question suggests that kissing and all activity related to it had better wait till morning.

While Aramis rests his head on Athos’ chest and closes his eyes instead of answering, Athos turns his head to look at Porthos. “Are those the only two options?”

Porthos chuckles and leans in, “You sound like our kitten when you talk like that.” He lifts the blanket to join them underneath, and pulls both of them into his arms. “Aramis,” he says solemnly – and then he stops, because Aramis has pushed his face into his chest instead of Athos’ and is sighing in obvious content. “Alright, never mind – just go to sleep, kitten.”

Aramis mumbles something unintelligible and _does_ , and Athos raises an impressed brow at Porthos. “I had no idea that worked.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Porthos admits, blinking down at Aramis’ relaxed features. “Should try it more often, I guess.”

They are both silent for a moment, looking at Aramis, and then Athos huffs and cranes his neck to brush a kiss to Porthos’ lips. “Are you hungry?”

“Heh, I had somethin’ on the way,” Porthos admits with a sheepish grin. “You?”

“A little,” Athos confesses, and Porthos immediately reaches out to hand him some bread and cheese.

“I also got us some apples for breakfast tomorrow,” Porthos informs Athos while he eats, “They’re a bit wrinkly, but still good.”

“Aramis will like that,” Athos comments between bites of bread. He quite enjoys looking at the way Aramis is holding on to Porthos – completely relaxed in sleep, hiding a smile against Porthos’ skin.

The fire crackles in the hearth, adds to the feeling of content spreading in Athos’ chest. He looks at Aramis for a long time … welcomes the helpless affection this results in.

“Glad we got him back, eh?” Porthos murmurs when he catches him staring, and Athos blinks, emerges from the light daze he had fallen into.

“I did not think it would be quite this easy,” he admits.

“I did,” Porthos replies. He sounds neither boastful nor mulish – is merely stating a fact. “He loves us. He’ll always come back when we ask him to.”

Athos loves the calm implicitness of his words, loves that Porthos can be so sure. Porthos would never even begin to doubt them.

Athos finishes his repast and lies back down, rests his head on Porthos’ shoulder and closes his eyes. He had to sleep without Aramis for only one night, but he could not be happier to have him back by his side.

It is not a question of whether Porthos is enough – Porthos will always be enough. Strictly speaking Athos deserves neither the one nor the other in his life, not to mention his bed. But now that he got a taste, now that he knows what it is like, he cannot go back to living his life without Aramis in it without suffering.

It would be like an open wound, would be even worse than the one she left him with. This is something real, something built on years of friendship and trust. Aramis and Porthos never pretended with him, were never anything but themselves.

Athos takes a deep breath and turns his head, kisses Porthos’ shoulder – smiles when Porthos hums in approval and strokes his hand over Athos’ back.

Athos realizes that he needs to work harder to be worthy of them, that he needs to do so much more to make them happy. So far all he has been able to do was accept their kindness, and while that was difficult enough at first, it does not seem to be enough anymore.

He wants to do more. Wants to do something special, just for them.

He falls asleep with that resolution firmly locked into his mind – falls asleep with his head on Porthos’ shoulder and his hand buried in Aramis’ hair.

 

Wakefulness is slow to return to Athos the next morning. All he is aware of for quite some time is the warmth surrounding him – and who he owes it to.

For although Athos could never pinpoint exactly _how_ it manifests, there is a difference between Porthos’ and Aramis’ warmth, a difference in the way they hold him.

He seems to have shifted during the night; his head is resting on Aramis’ chest now. Athos smiles at the thought that it is truly a marvel that none of them has fallen out of bed during those changes in position yet … and it is just as marvellous that he is comfortable sharing such a small bed after so many years of sleeping alone.

But he has gotten used to the tight space, has gotten used to the heat of two bodies right next to his. He has gotten used to being held all through the night, and waking up in someone else’s arms.

He never wants to go back.

Aramis is still asleep when Athos opens his eyes, and one glance towards the window confirms that the sun has barely risen above the horizon. The light outside is grey and colourless, and it is only the snow on the ground that makes it appear as bright as it does.

Athos studies Aramis’ features in that half-light, takes in the shadows beneath Aramis’ eyes that one night of rest could not quite remove.

Aramis was so afraid to lose him that he could neither sleep nor eat … was so spooked by Athos’ display of weakness that he blamed himself much more than he should have.

It is only now, two days after it happened, that Athos realizes how much worse it could have been – how fast he has recovered.

Although a shadow of shame still lingers in his mind, he feels good again, feels _right_ again. He no longer blames himself for the way he reacted; it was out of his control. Instead of shame he feels regret – regret that he ruined a night of excitement and exploration for Aramis and Porthos.

Athos does not want this failure to be what Aramis will remember – does not want it for himself either. He knows there can be enjoyment in the act for him, even if he needs to be very careful in the way he approaches it.

Leaving things as they are now would come too close to doing to Aramis what she did to Athos – would take something that ought to be enjoyed and twist it until nothing but fear and anxiety remains.

Athos does not want Aramis to shrink from his desires, does not want him to think them wrong.

They need to do it again, need to try at least one more time … for Aramis just as much as for Athos himself.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” Porthos murmurs suddenly, his voice a low rumble deep inside his chest, wonderfully warm against Athos’ back. “I can _hear_ you think.”

Athos blinks, slowly turns his head to look at him and drawl, “I was not aware you could do that.”

“Only on special occasions,” Porthos informs him, and kisses the tip of Athos’ nose. “What’s keepin’ you up?”

“Nothing of importance,” Athos says quietly – only because he wants to wait until Aramis is awake before he breaches the subject, not because he plans on keeping any secrets.

Porthos still pushes out his bottom lip and looks at Athos out of big, round eyes. “That’s not true at all though, is it?”

The urge to tell him _everything_ is nearly overwhelming, and Athos huffs and closes his eyes. “Not really, no.”

Porthos chuckles and strokes his hands over Athos’ belly, kisses his neck. “Tell me, love.”

Athos turns his head back around, tries to stifle his helpless laughter against Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis stirs, ever so lightly, but does not wake up. “Are you trying to seduce me into spilling my secrets to you?”

“Nhm, I might be,” Porthos murmurs. He rubs his thumb over the soft skin under Athos’ navel while his lips leave a warm trail of kisses on Athos’ shoulder. “Is it workin’?”

“Stop this,” Athos asks him in a wavering voice, “I do not want to wake Aramis.”

Porthos hums and presses his mouth to the base of Athos’ neck. “I doubt he’d wake up even if I fucked you right on top of him … although you do tend to be rather, eh, vocal.”

Athos can feel his grin on his skin, and he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Porthos, I –“

“Yeah?” Porthos asks, when nothing else is forthcoming – pushes his hips forward and against Athos’ ass in a manner that is both playful and teasing, and arouses Athos quite horribly.

He bites his lip, tries to suppress a moan, and ends up whining against Aramis’ shoulder – makes him sigh in his sleep.

“You wanna try and be really quiet?” Porthos whispers into his ear. “Wanna find out how long we can go on without wakin’ him?” His thumb is still brushing back and forth under Athos’ navel; and now it moves a little lower, pushes underneath the hem of Athos’ smallclothes. “I bet you’d make the sweetest noises if you tried to be quiet, eh love?”

Athos’ lips part to let out a hot breath of air, and he pushes his hips back – rubs his ass against Porthos’ growing arousal, loves to feel the heat of Porthos’ cock through both their linen. “Yes – yes I want that.”

Porthos hums again, audibly pleased, and unlaces Athos’ smallclothes with deft fingers. “Mh, look at you – you’re all greedy this mornin’ …”

Athos bites down on his bottom lip to keep in a moan, and reaches down to pull the linen off his hips – pushes them back into Porthos again as soon as it is done.

His vision is white hot at the edges, his whole body aches to be touched, and when Porthos closes his hand around his cock and _squeezes_ , the noise leaving Athos’ throat does not sound altogether human.

Porthos is rubbing his hardening cock against his cleft, and the remaining layer of linen between them only makes Athos’ arousal so much worse. He needs to feel Porthos skin to skin, needs that sensation of Porthos’ cock rubbing directly against his hole.

But he cannot open his mouth and speak – is certain that something else entirely would come out if he tried.

Porthos’ hand is warm and rough around his cock, keeps moving up and down in a tantalizingly slow rhythm, and every time Porthos brushes his thumb over the vein on the underside and circles it around the tip, the heat inside Athos rises.

“You’re doin’ good, love,” Porthos whispers into his ear, and Athos whimpers, “keepin’ all nice and quiet – Aramis has no idea, has he?”

Athos looks at Aramis’ face quite automatically, takes in his expression. It is completely carefree in sleep, and it _does_ something to Athos – the idea that Porthos could bring him to completion, could open him up and get him ready … all nice and loose for when Aramis wakes up.

He whines, so low as to be almost inaudible, bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He is far too close to coming already – feels as though keeping quiet, keeping the noises in makes him all the more sensitive … drives him crazy with lust so much faster.

He wants to beg already – although what for he is not sure.

His skin is so sensitive, it is as though he hasn’t been touched for months, and is so starved for Porthos’ touch that he would do anything for him, just to get him to put his hand on Athos.

Athos does not have to do anything though. He knows that. Porthos will always give his affection freely, will never demand anything in return.

Knowing this has no influence at all on Athos’ willingness to do his bidding. No influence at all.

When Porthos finally unlaces his own smallclothes and pushes them down with his free hand it is already more than Athos can handle. His throat produces a choked noise and he spreads his legs, lets his lashes flutter closed.

“That’s it, love,” Porthos whispers into his ear, his voice heavy with lust and satisfaction, “let me at you.”

He pushes his hips forward, rubs his hard cock over Athos’ hole – and that is very nearly enough to make Athos lose control. He does not know what to do, does not know whether he wants to push forward and into Porthos’ hand, or back and onto his cock.

Still he is holding back, whimpering and whining as softly as he can, letting the lust accumulate inside him until it fills him to the brim.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Porthos murmurs, presses a kiss just below Athos’ ear, “come on, open up for me love.” He lifts his free hand to Athos’ mouth, brushes his fingertips over Athos’ lips – and Athos does as he is told. He opens his mouth and curls his tongue around Porthos’ fingers, sucks them between his lips.

“Yeah, just like that,” Porthos whispers, and the hand around Athos’ cock moves a little faster suddenly, squeezes him more firmly, “you can bite down if you wanna, love, I don’t mind.” 

His voice sounds rough, is just low enough to tie Athos’ stomach in knots and leave a trail of goose bumps all over his back.

He does not bite down on Porthos’ fingers, but sucks on them, rubs his ass against Porthos’ cock. His eyes roll back into his head when Porthos whispers into his ear, tells him what a nice warm mouth he has, how pretty his lips look all stretched and red around his fingers – and then Aramis sighs.

Athos’ eyes fly open and he stares at Aramis’ face, unable to stop moving, intimately aware of the picture he must present right now: face flushed and hair tousled … wanton. He cannot stop himself from sucking on Porthos’ fingers, cannot let them go. It feels too good to stop.

Athos watches Aramis’ mouth pull into a smile, watches the flutter of his lashes – shivers violently when Porthos breathes against his neck. “Come on then, love … let him have somethin’ nice to wake up to, eh?”

Aramis’ eyes open, and Athos comes – falls over the edge just as Aramis looks at him, when the realization of what is going on dawns on his face.

Aramis’ lips open in silent surprise, and Athos falls apart – falls apart between Porthos’ hand and his cock, rendered so helpless that all he can do is moan while he comes in hot spurts all over Porthos’ fist.

Aramis is looking directly into Athos’ eyes, and his own start to sparkle with something that is not quite lust, but not mere affection either.

Whatever it is, there can be no doubt that he is happy to wake up to this display of licentiousness.

Athos whines around the fingers in his mouth – no longer tries to keep quiet now that Aramis is awake. Porthos tries to pull them back, but Athos does not let him, keeps sucking on them until he is spent.

Only when he has nothing left to give does Athos let go of them. Aramis cranes his neck as soon as he does, presses a kiss to Athos’ lips and teases his tongue between them.

Athos whimpers, feels so overwhelmed that he hardly knows how to react – lets Aramis take everything he desires.

He feels Porthos’ breath on the back of his neck, feels the pressure of Porthos’ cock against his ass while Aramis plunders his mouth, and it is too much, feels too good.

It reminds Athos of the hazy blur when he yields, when Porthos puts his hand on his neck and tells him what to do … when he takes care of him.

The thought trickles through Athos like drops of freshly molten snow, and he remembers his resolution from last night and breaks the kiss, pulls back with a gasp. “I need to – I need to talk to you.”

This sudden outburst seems to confuse Aramis, but he’s quick to adopt a grin. “You have a rather roundabout way of going about that, my dearest Athos.”

The jest inspires Porthos to chuckle against Athos’ neck, and the combined warmth of their amusement lights Athos up from inside, makes him feel brighter than he has in a long time.

He barely heeds it when Porthos leaves the bed to return with a wet cloth to clean him up. All he does is sit up to allow Porthos easier access to his skin. He goes to his knees beside Aramis, looks down at him with thunder in his chest. He feels nervous, almost despite himself, carefully clears his throat, “I would like us – I _want_ us to try again.”

Silence falls; so suddenly that it seems to drain all life from the room.

Aramis is looking at Athos out of wide eyes, no longer smiling; Porthos stops moving for a long moment.

“Try what again?” he asks eventually. He resumes moving, breaks the spell that has fallen over them all and wipes the cloth over Athos’ belly as gently as always, pulls Athos’ smallclothes back up and re-laces them.

His tone of voice suggests that he knows Athos’ meaning well enough. He is merely trying to buy time.

Athos can hardly blame him.

“Try the spanking again,” he says, short and to the point. He does not want to dance around the subject, does not want to play a game of ‘you know what I mean so I will not spell it out’. “As soon as it is convenient for you, in fact.”

Aramis takes a hasty breath, and while he does not pull away, the sudden tension in his shoulders suggests that he would like to. “No.”

He sounds protective, stubborn, frightened, all at once, and Athos takes his hand into his, squeezes it gently. “Aramis –“

Aramis’ face is a grimace of unease. “No, Athos, please – I don’t want to – I don’t want you to –“

“Aramis,” Athos repeats, squeezes his hand again, “please let me speak.”

Aramis has gone so pale that his skin looks ashen, and he stares at Porthos, searching for support. “Please don’t let him do this.”

Porthos’ hand comes up to Athos’ shoulder, and he moves closer to Athos from behind. It seems he is no longer hard, has softened almost completely at this change of topic. He pulls his own undergarments up, and then he spans his fingers over Athos’ cooling skin, rubs his thumb back and forth. “You’re sure about this, love?”

“You need to understand that I do not mean to make a martyr out of myself by suggesting this,” Athos replies quietly. His voice sounds thick, but the obstacle in his throat is not shame, it is gratefulness.

He knows why neither Aramis nor Porthos feel comfortable with the subject. He knows that it is their love for him that makes it impossible to greet it with anything but profound unease.

So Athos holds on to Aramis’ hand, even manages a smile. “Do I believe that I owe you at least one more try at this? Yes I do.” He lifts his hand when Aramis opens his mouth to interrupt him, keeps him quiet with nothing but a smile. “I also believe that it would be wrong of us to let this one unsuccessful night grow into something fearsome. For five years I was so afraid of anyone touching me, because … because she had been the only one who ever had.”

Aramis’ eyes widen in sympathy, and Athos continues in a soft voice. “She had been my only source of experience for so long.” He swallows, moistens his lips. “I had no idea that it could be different, never even thought of trying again. I do not want us to make the same mistake.”

He pulls Aramis’ hand to his lips, presses a kiss on the knuckles. “I know that there can be pleasure in this for all of us, and I would much rather try and find it than be afraid of bad memories.”

Aramis does not immediately say anything in reply.

Athos does not expect him to. He leans back into Porthos, back into his warmth, but his eyes do not waver from Aramis’ face. “I would appreciate it very much indeed if you helped me to let go of them.”

Aramis looks at him in silence for a long moment. Then his gaze wavers to the left, and Athos knows that he is looking at Porthos now, that they are communicating without words.

The longer their silent conversation goes on, the more Aramis relaxes, and in the end he smiles. “Am I allowed to have breakfast first?”

Aramis’ smile chases away all remaining shadows lingering on Athos’ soul, and he smiles back, brushes another kiss over Aramis’ knuckles. “Oh, I insist on you having breakfast first.”

He lets go of Aramis’ hand and pushes back into Porthos, who puts both arms around his middle and holds him close. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day,” he murmurs, and Athos turns his head to the side, closes his eyes.

The afterglow of his climax is still lingering, is still giving him more warmth and strength than he knows what to do with. “The day to hear me talking sense?”

Porthos chuckles and strokes his hands over Athos’ belly. “Somethin’ like that. ‘M glad you wanna do this for yourself.”

He sounds so fiercely proud that Athos experiences something very much like pain inside his chest – the forceful expansion of his ribcage, giving his heart more room to beat.

He leans back into Porthos, keeps his eyes closed and smiles. “Well – you are very persistent. It seems that you have worn me down.”

His voice is too low to carry very far, but Porthos still hears him, hugs him tight for a moment. “I’m glad.”

“Not to spoil your moment of bliss,” Aramis makes himself heard between bites of cheese and bread, “but what precisely is the plan for, you know, preventing what happened the last time?”

Athos opens his eyes at that, and settles into a more comfortable position in Porthos’ embrace. “Well, for one I thought I would take matters into my own hands.”

Aramis chokes on a bite of cheese and beats on his chest to set it free and gain his breath back.

Athos smirks at him, hands Aramis a mug of water to wash the food down with. “If Porthos does not mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Porthos purrs behind him. “I could take Aramis over my lap, eh, while you stand in front of the bed?”

Aramis flushes violently, but resumes drinking without a noise of objection, and Athos’ smirk morphs into a teasing smile.

“That sounds practicable, yes.”

“You feelin’ safe with the idea?” Porthos asks, sounding sober all of a sudden. The change of tone does not make Athos uncomfortable, it only makes him feel protected … very safe indeed.

“I believe I was rather too far removed from the proceedings the last time,” he says quietly. “Being involved like this should improve matters.”

“But we stop,” Aramis says decisively and puts the water away. He still looks flushed, still looks aroused, but his expression is grim nevertheless. “As soon as you start to feel uncomfortable, we stop – you must promise me this.”

“I promise,” Athos says immediately, without a second of doubt or hesitation. “I want to happen again what happened the last time just as much as you do.”

“Meanin’ not at all,” Porthos murmurs and presses a kiss to Athos’ cheek. He is sitting so very close to Athos, covering his back like a blanket, warm and strong, is keeping his arms around Athos, keeps stroking his belly. Being held like this makes it impossible to be afraid.

Aramis must see it on his face, for he too relaxes more and more, and resumes eating in a manner that can only be called ravenous.

“It appears you have left your mark on both of us,” Athos whispers to Porthos, and is rewarded with a blinding grin.

“’S lookin’ good on both of ya, I must say … and you like gettin’ marked up, I know that much.”

His voice has returned to that low, seductive register that always succeeds at finding a direct line to Athos’ cock. Porthos’ fingers dig a little firmer into Athos’ skin, his arms hold on to him with just a little more force – and Aramis looks in grave danger of choking on his food again.

“Please let Aramis eat first,” Athos murmurs, failing quite spectacularly at controlling his voice, “I do not –“ Porthos drags his teeth over Athos’ neck at that point, and Athos moans, continues in a breathy voice, “I do not want him to faint.”

Porthos chuckles and presses a kiss over Athos’ pulse. “He’s more resilient than you think, love.”

“No, no – Athos is right,” Aramis pipes up, “I am dangerously close to fainting, if only for this shameless display of your affection.”

“Should make you watch,” Porthos murmurs, drawing little swirls and circles on Athos’ skin, up to his chest and back down to below his navel, his fingertips deliciously rough, “should make you sit still and forbid you to touch yourself while I take care of Athos.”

Aramis’ eyes glaze over at the mere suggestion, and Athos notes with relief that he seems to have finished his breakfast.

“Are we ready then?” Porthos asks, puts his chin on Athos’ shoulder and gazes at Aramis with a hungry grin. “You certainly _deserve_ a good spankin’ this mornin’, don’t you think so, kitten?”

“I’m not going to come out of this with my wits intact,” Aramis replies in a dumbstruck tone. He is staring, first at Porthos, then at Athos – eyes wide and all black, only a thin sliver of iris remaining around the pupil, “You can’t do this to me – I can’t –“

“Oh, you can,” Porthos interrupts him, gives Athos one last hug ere he lets go of him and pulls back his arms. “Tell him, love.”

“You will do precisely what we tell you to do,” Athos informs Aramis in a smooth, cool voice that does not surprise him as much as it probably should, “and you will enjoy it.”

Aramis topples forward at that, cranes his neck for a kiss, and Athos puts a hand on his chest, keeps him at bay. “Not yet. You have not earned that right.”

The words seem to come out all by themselves – not so much out of nowhere as from a place within Athos that was locked until now. He feels comfortable speaking them, feels comfortable playing this character, and he raises his chin, pins Aramis with a stern, haughty look.

Aramis stares back at Athos, cheeks flushed and lips parted, and then he hangs his head and nods. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

The way he submits to Athos feels like breaking through ice and finding the water underneath pleasantly warm. It is an agreeable sensation, entirely satisfying, and Athos settles into his role with comfortable ease. “Good.”

Porthos echoes the sentiment, makes a satisfied noise behind Athos’ back and gets up. He walks over to the fireplace and starts to light it, practical and efficient as always.

Athos remains on the bed, stroking his fingers through Aramis’ hair and over his face while they wait for Porthos’ return. He talks to Aramis in a low voice, points out how much he deserves to be disciplined, how much Athos will enjoy chastening him.

Porthos is quick to bring a spark to life, turns his head while he feeds dry grass and twigs to the flame. There is an edge to his expression that fits the situation perfectly. “You want your gloves for this, love?”

Aramis whimpers, but does not say a word, keeps his head down.

Athos takes a deep breath at the sound, remembers that they forgot something very important. He puts his hand under Aramis’ chin and lifts his head, strokes his thumb over Aramis’ lower lip. “Look at me.”

Aramis does and Athos leans in, presses a quick kiss to Aramis’ mouth. “If you want us to stop, you only have to say the word, you hear? If we do anything you do not enjoy, if it gets too much –“

“I know,” Aramis breathes out, licks his lips and rocks forward, drops his head and kisses Athos’ wrist, “please continue.”

Athos does so without losing a beat. He draws back his hand and gets off the bed to stand in front of it, straightens his shoulders. “Very well then. I will not gag you –“ Aramis makes a choked noise, and the left corner of Athos’ mouth rises a little, “this time. You will have to try and keep quiet by yourself.”

Aramis just stares at him, amazed and reverent, and Athos frowns. “Do you understand?”

“Yes!” Aramis rushes to say, “yes I do.”

Porthos huffs in fond amusement, moves to stand at Athos’ side, and Athos turns to him to look at his face. They share a smile, reassuring and warm, and when Porthos leans in for a kiss, Athos raises his chin to meet him.

“I do want my gloves for this,” he says when they part, and although Aramis does not make any noise this time, he does not really need to for Athos to know how much this affects him.

“You will kneel over Porthos’ lap,” he tells Aramis in a tone that could be called emotionless if it wasn’t for its underlying heat. “You will only talk when spoken to. Otherwise you will remain silent. Understood?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, his voice already reduced to a breathy whisper. “I understand.”

“Good,” Athos says, and takes his gloves from Porthos, pulls them on. He is probably underdressed, wearing nothing but his smallclothes, but they shall suffice.

Getting dressed now would be somewhat ridiculous. Athos does not want to do it, feels comfortable as he is. This is merely a game they are playing. Maybe he will dress up for the part properly should they decide to play again.

Whatever Athos’ feelings on the matter may be, Aramis does not seem to mind his or Porthos’ state of undress – he stares at them with worship in his eyes, hardly blinks at all.

Athos tilts his head, adopts an annoyed expression. “Will you move to the side already so that Porthos can sit on the bed?”

That gets him a hasty flutter of lashes, and even hastier compliance. “Yes, of course – I’m sorry.”

“You are really very useless at this,” Athos comments in a dry voice, “I expected better behaviour from you.”

Porthos settles onto the bed and grins at him, wide and satisfied, utterly shameless. “We’ll have to teach him.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees with a drawl, “it appears we have to.” He directs a stern gaze at Aramis. “Down on you hands and knees over his lap, come on, move.”

Aramis moves, and Porthos helps him, gropes him generously while doing so. “He’s already all excited,” he tells Athos in a conversational tone. “Should we forbid him to come?”

Aramis whimpers again, and Athos steps closer to him, grabs his chin and turns it up so Aramis is forced to look at him. “Did you say something?”

Aramis flushes, and the overwhelmed excitement on his face is rather too endearing. “No, no – nothing, I’m sorry.”

He is panting, is visibly hard inside his undergarments, and Athos fastens his grip, presses his gloved fingertips into Aramis’ skin. “You will keep quiet for me?”

His tone isn’t so much threatening as gently coaxing, and Aramis takes a deep, hasty breath to control his resulting arousal. “I’ll do anything – anything –“

“Very good, I shall keep that promise in mind.” Athos lets go of him and straightens, smiles at Porthos. “Hold him, please – do not allow him to move.”

Porthos promptly puts one arm over Aramis’ neck, pushes him face-first into the bedding. “I can do that.”

The new position leaves Aramis’ ass invitingly raised, and Athos contemplates its clothed state for a moment. “I do think I want him exposed though.”

Porthos chuckles, “I can do that, too.”

He unlaces Aramis’ undergarments and pulls them off his ass, and Athos is not surprised about the spike of arousal mingled with anticipation that flashes through him at the sight.

This time around it does not make him nauseous.

It must be because he is not alone in this – must be because Porthos is with him, gives him his smile and the sort of playful banter Athos finds immensely enjoyable no matter the circumstances.

He raises his hand, puts it on the pale skin of Aramis’ ass and keeps it there for a moment, allows Aramis to get used to the feel of the leather. “Do you still want this, Aramis?”

“Yes, please,” is the breathless reply, “please, please – I want this, I want –“

Athos brushes his thumb over his hole, and Aramis moans, turns his face into the bedding to stifle the sound.

“I believe I told you to be quiet,” Athos muses in a soft voice. “Did I not tell him to be quiet, Porthos?”

“Yeah, you did,” Porthos agrees lazily. “Better teach him a lesson, eh?”

“Yes,” Athos says slowly, drags his thumb down Aramis’ cleft. “Are you ready, Aramis?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, and Athos turns his head so he can look at his face, moves slightly to the left without taking his hand off Aramis’ ass.

Aramis’ eyes are soft, entirely trusting, look like black velvet in the firelight. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Athos smiles at him, very briefly, and then he concentrates on the task at hand.

There is no tension in his shoulders, no hesitation in his heart. Aramis wants this, has asked for this, and Athos feels good giving it to him.

He raises his hand and brings it down again in a swift arc.

The moment when he strikes Aramis’ skin is a peculiar one.

Athos does not know what he expected to feel when he hears Aramis stifle a moan.

Not this kind of elation. Not this deep-rooted satisfaction.


	19. Chapter 19

Athos expected to feel some sort of remorse for hitting Aramis. Instead all he feels is content.

He does not relish inflicting pain on his friend, but then that’s not what this is about.

This is about trust, about giving Aramis what he wants.

This is about pleasure.

He watches Aramis’ skin redden, and rubs his leather-clad fingers over the mark – looks up to meet Porthos’ gaze.

That one look transports everything: confirmation that Athos enjoys this, that he is alright; pride at giving Aramis pleasure; a quiet oath that they will take good care of him.

“You liked that?” Athos asks, and Aramis makes a little noise that is clear enough in itself, but not what Athos wants to hear. So he strikes Aramis’ ass again, hits the other cheek this time, “I asked you a question.”

He is speaking softly, gently, but with sufficient authority to make Aramis shiver. “Yes – yes I liked it. Please … do it again.”

“You know,” Porthos muses while Athos widens his stance and raises his hand again, “I think you’re bein’ too nice to him.” He watches Athos’ hand go down for a third time, and holds Aramis still, prevents him from flinching when it connects with his ass.

He is holding on to Aramis with both arms. His left arm is keeping pressure on Aramis’ shoulders to keep his head down and face pressed into the bedding. The right one is slung under Aramis’ belly, holds Aramis close to Porthos’ body and keeps his ass invitingly raised. “This is hardly punishment. You’re spoilin’ him.”

Athos hits Aramis again before he contemplates an answer. “You think so?”

Porthos grins again, dirty and joyful, and Athos can see the same arousal he is experiencing on his lover’s face. Neither of them would do this if Aramis had not asked for it, but since Aramis did, since he is enjoying himself, they can do so as well.

Aramis is making the sweetest noises, is breathing heavily, and his ass already bears several marks of Athos’ treatment. Athos is looking down at Aramis, at the picture he presents, and he is neither afraid nor ashamed that he finds gratification in this display.

How could he not, when Aramis loves it so much, when he is arched over Porthos’ lap in such an appealing manner, when he shivers and twitches every time Athos touches him.

“He is doing so very well though,” Athos murmurs, stroking his hand over the red marks on Aramis’ skin, “and you must not forget that it is the first time.”

Porthos chuckles and loosens the pressure on Aramis’ upper body, strokes his hand over Aramis’ head and down his neck. “Give him a few good slaps at least – he doesn’t even have to work on bein’ quiet like this.”

“Very well,” Athos replies, and is rewarded with another dirty grin, “as you wish.”

He waits for a heartbeat or two, just in case Aramis wants to stop him, drags his thumb down Aramis’ cleft.

When no protest is forthcoming he lifts his hand – and when he brings it down again this time, he does not stop to pause.

He hits Aramis again and again and again, until his whole ass is red and sensitive, and Aramis is clawing into the bedding with both hands, desperate to stifle the noises trying to escape his throat.

“You may speak,” Athos tells him when he is finished and his palm tingling with heat, “tell us how that felt.”

“Yeah,” Porthos adds in a low chuckle, “give us all the details, kitten.”

He strokes his hand over Aramis’ ass, spreads his fingers over the glowing skin, and Aramis shivers and moans. “So hot.”

“What was that?” Athos asks in a smooth voice, and then he leans forward, grips Aramis’ hair and pulls his head up, “do speak up please.”

“It feels good,” Aramis whispers in a dreamy voice. “When – when you hit me. It … it moves all – moves through me all the way. Feels … feels so hot.” He spreads his legs when Porthos starts stroking his ass, rubs his leaking cock over Porthos’ lap. “Feels so good.”

“I do not believe I allowed you to do that,” Athos comments in a dry voice, “but I shall let it pass – this once.”

“Too nice,” Porthos says, and pinches Aramis’ ass for good measure, “don’t you think so, kitten?”

Aramis gasps and flinches – only to push up into Porthos’ hand immediately afterwards. “Porthos – Porthos, I –“

“I do not think he can take much more of this,” Athos says quietly. He removes one glove, and then the other, lets them drop to the floor. The palm of his right hand is reddened; it feels hot, just like Aramis’ ass, and Athos touches him without the glove, rubs his thumb over Aramis’ hole again. “What do you say, Aramis – was this enough punishment for now?”

Aramis whimpers and bucks his hips, moans loud enough to send a hot shiver down Athos’ back. He does not wait for an answer, nor does he demand one. Instead he goes down on one knee, looks up at Porthos and smiles. “Let me at him?”

Porthos promptly pulls away his hand and watches as Athos leans forward to press a kiss to the hot skin. He reaches underneath Aramis with his free hand, curls his fingers around his cock and squeezes.

That’s all it takes.

Aramis comes with a hoarse cry that surprises Athos as much as it elates him. He certainly did not expect such a violent reaction, but he welcomes it all the same. He moves his hand up and down on Aramis’ cock until he is spent, keeps stroking the over-sensitive skin of his ass … keeps kissing it.

Aramis keeps moaning Athos’ name after that first cry, keeps whispering it into the bedding. Athos closes his eyes when Aramis stops and goes silent, closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Aramis’ hip.

“Well,” Porthos says after a moment of all noise in the room consisting of their mingled breathing, “I’d like to call that one a proper success.”

A smile tugs at Athos’ lips. It spreads over his face slowly but steadily, makes him chuckle and look up. “But should not Aramis be the one to decide?”

Aramis makes a feeble noise and tries to move, and Athos promptly straightens, gives Porthos the necessary room to pick him up and turn him around – to put him down in his lap as gently as possible.

Aramis grimaces when his ass connects with Porthos’ lap, but he does not heed the discomfort, reaches out his arms and pulls Athos close with surprising strength. “You –“

He kisses Athos, breathless and eager, and Athos is barely able to make out Porthos’ voice over the rush of his blood in his ears. “I’d say Aramis calls it a success too.”

Aramis breaks the kiss with an indecently wet noise, buries both hands in Athos’ hair and stares at him. “How – how did you –“

Athos returns his gaze fondly, strokes Aramis’ hair out of his face and behind his left ear. “Do you need us to put some ointment on that?”

“You were so good,” Aramis whispers instead of answering. “You never even hesitated.”

“Why would I?” Athos asks quietly. “I could see that you were enjoying yourself.” He clears his throat. “About that ointment –“

“Leave it,” Aramis interrupts him – possesses the audacity to blush. “You did not break the skin. I quite … I quite enjoy the sensation.”

Porthos smiles and kisses his temple. “Yeah. You would.” He waits for Athos to get a wet cloth and clean Aramis up ere he lifts him off his lap and onto the mattress, makes him stretch out on his stomach.

Athos notices Porthos’ arousal when he straightens afterwards, remembers that Porthos is the only one who did not find completion this morning. The discovery overwhelms him a little and Athos takes a number of slow, steady breaths. “What about you?”

“’M fine,” Porthos murmurs, strokes his hand over Aramis’ back and smiles at Athos, “I wanna come down from this one first, before I start somethin’ new.” He winks at Athos. “Give you two a moment to breathe, eh?”

Athos loves him so fiercely in that moment, he is rather certain that Porthos can see it on his face – and he does.

“Come here, love,” he whispers, “let me hold you.”

So Athos steps forward and into his arms, relaxes into an embrace that feels more like home than any house or stretch of land ever could. Porthos holds him, and they breathe together, chest to chest, share a kiss, and part.

Aramis is still lying on his front on the bed, but he has turned is head, is smiling up at them. “Join me?”

“Yes,” Athos says in a fond voice, “we are about to.” He lowers himself onto the mattress at Aramis’ left shoulder, while Porthos climbs over him to get to his right.

The fire is still burning brightly in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, so they make do without a blanket for now. Aramis is breathing steadily, has closed his eyes now that they have joined him. “I did not think I would enjoy this quite as much as I did,” he admits in a soft voice. “Thank you, Athos.”

“Thank you for trusting me enough to find out,” Athos replies and lowers his head to kiss Aramis’ shoulder.

“You were so very, very good at … everything,” Aramis says – blinks one eye open and grins at Athos. Then he sobers, clears his throat. “You did … I mean … did you enjoy it too?”

“Yes,” Athos assures him, “it was quite pleasant to have you at my mercy.” He glances at Porthos, catches him smiling. “At our mercy, to be precise.”

“Yeah, that was fun,” Porthos agrees. “We can do that again.” He raises his hand, strokes it over Aramis’ ass and is rewarded with a blissful sigh. “Athos was really good at playin’ the disdainful lord, wasn’t he?”

“Very,” Aramis says fervently. He bites his lip and peeks at Athos through his lashes. “Would you … would you be comfortable doing it again?”

“As long as you enjoy yourself, I should do fine,” Athos replies softly. “Now I would like to see how you do under Porthos as you are now. Do you want to find out?” He strokes his hand over Aramis’ ass and grabs Porthos’ wrist, pushes his palm firmer onto Aramis’ hot flesh. “He deserves his pleasure just as much as you or I, does he not?”

Aramis moans and Porthos chuckles, strokes his fingertips over Aramis’ cleft. “You’re merciless this mornin’, love.”

“Aramis likes it,” is all Athos says in return.

Nobody contradicts him.

“Do you want to, kitten?” Porthos murmurs, when all Aramis does is moan at the way he is treated, “You want me to open you up?”

“Yes, please,” Aramis murmurs – pushes his ass up into Porthos’ touch. “I want you inside.”

Athos promptly gets up to collect the oil they use for these purposes. When he returns he sits down on the edge of the bed and hands Porthos the bottle, smiles at him when their fingers brush during the exchange. “Be gentle with him.”

“Always,” Porthos replies with a grin, and coats his fingers in oil, hands the bottle back to Athos, “we had enough rough-housin’ for today, didn’t we, kitten?”

Aramis smiles and spreads his legs, shivers when Porthos pushes one oily finger into him.

Athos watches them – watches Porthos open Aramis up, watches how he settles between Aramis’ spread legs and pulls him to his knees. Porthos is as gentle as he promised, as gentle as he always is, and Athos thinks he could watch them like this forever.

Aramis moans when Porthos pushes inside, fists both hands into the bedding and pushes back, meets Porthos’ hips with his own.

He gasps when Porthos’ skin meets his, claws at the bedding and _whines_. “Oh,” he whispers, and Athos watches how he pushes back against Porthos ever so lightly, “oh, it’s so _hot_ …”

“You gonna be alright, kitten?” Porthos murmurs behind him, and Aramis’ mouth pulls into a smile, unselfconscious and blissful.

“Yes, _ah_ , yes I am.”

“Be careful,” Athos advises in a dry voice, “we do not want him to be overwhelmed.”

“Eh, I like him overwhelmed,” Porthos replies with a hungry grin.

When he starts to move, he does so slowly, nevertheless. Aramis gasps and moans whenever Porthos’ hips brush against his ass, gets increasingly louder the harder Porthos fucks into him.

Athos watches him fall apart under Porthos, watches him lose all inhibition and restraint. He cannot feel even a hint of surprise when Aramis starts to beg – beg Porthos to fuck him harder, to give him more, _please_ , followed by promises to do anything Porthos might want if only Porthos does not stop.

That is when Porthos throws his arms around Aramis’ chest and pulls him up, pulls them both into an upright position until Aramis is sitting on his lap.

Athos knows how such an abrupt change in position feels. He knows how it feels to be held by Porthos like this, but he can only imagine what it is like so shortly after being spanked. Aramis must still be so sensitive, must feel everything so much more intensely, and Athos cannot help himself, cannot stop staring at Aramis’ face.

Aramis’ eyes are closed, his lashes fanning out over his flushed cheeks; his lips are slick and red, and he does not stop moaning; he keeps whimpering, keeps making little “ah-ah-ah” noises, needy and wanton.

“Is it good, Aramis?” Athos hears himself ask, and he reaches out his hand, drags it down Aramis’ chest and belly, “is he all the way inside?”

“So deep,” is all Aramis gets out in reply, but it is more than enough, for both Athos and Porthos.

Porthos starts moving again, starts to fuck Aramis in this position, moves him up and down on his lap as though he weighed all but nothing. He keeps his arms around Aramis, keeps him safe, murmurs praise and words of affection into Aramis’ skin that get lost in the sound of Aramis’ moaning.

Aramis is close to coming again, his cock curving up towards his belly, smearing pre-come on his skin every time Porthos rocks into him. Athos spreads his fingers over Aramis’ chest, protective and fond, rubs his thumb over the hollow of Aramis’ throat. “We took good care of him today, did we not, Porthos?”

“And the day’s only just begun,” Porthos gets out from between gritted teeth, drops his head and presses a kiss to Aramis’ shoulder, “he’s gonna go to bed tonight all happy – won’t you, kitten?”

“I love you,” Aramis replies in a broken voice, and Athos looks at Porthos, looks into his eyes.

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos murmurs, lets Aramis sink back forward, makes sure he has his arms under him, “I love you,” he tells him, whispers it into his ear. He strokes his hands over Aramis’ back, puts them on his hips. “You’re doin’ so good for Athos ‘n me.”

Aramis has turned his head to the side, and his right cheek is mushed into the bedding. He is not smiling anymore, not really – is too relaxed and content for a proper smile.

But his eyes are open, soft and liquid, and he looks at Athos, lids half-closed and drooping.

“Let him come,” Athos says quietly, glances up at Porthos again with a little smile, “he’s close to fainting on us.”

“And you think comin’ will help with that?” Porthos grunts as he pushes into Aramis with careful, languid thrusts. But eventually he gains speed, leans forward and over Aramis’ back, changes the angle yet again. Athos can see on Porthos’ face how very close he is to his release, can see it in the way he holds his shoulders. 

Porthos’ chest is heaving, but he never loses control, never forgets Aramis’ pleasure. Athos watches him fall towards his orgasm, watches him sneak a hand between Aramis and the covers, and close it around his cock, just as he allows himself to give in. “Come on then, kitten, let go.”

Aramis bucks into his touch, once, twice – and comes. He does not make any noise. All he does is let out one long, blissful sigh. He doesn’t whine when Porthos pulls back and out of him, remains utterly still.

“Did we break him?” Porthos asks in a tone that is only half joking, and Athos directs an earnest look at Aramis’ face.

“’M fine,” Aramis slurs – does not move, does not even blink, “’m really good.”

Porthos smiles and drops a quick kiss to the spot just above Aramis’ ass. “Good then.”

He moves to get up, but Athos stops him. “Lie with him,” he says softly, “I’ll clean him up.”

That earns him a grateful smile, and Porthos stretches out at Aramis’ right side, strokes his hand down his back, slowly and gently. “Really good, eh?”

Aramis hums in approval and rolls onto his side so that his back is to Porthos, safe and warm. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move again.”

Athos returns to the bed with a wet cloth and sits down on its edge. “You are aware that you did in fact just move?”

All Aramis does in answer to that is award him with a sleepy smile – and gasp when Athos rolls him back on his front and touches the wet cloth to his skin. “Ah, it’s cold!”

“I am very sorry,” Athos says, “I shall make it better in a moment.”

Aramis squirms back and forth on the mattress, but he keeps smiling. “It doesn’t get better than this, Athos.”

“Warmer then,” Athos amends, cleans Aramis up, back and front, and puts the cloth away. “Come here.” He pushes Aramis into Porthos’ arms and joins them on the bed … closes the distance between their bodies and puts his arm around Aramis, rests his right hand on Porthos’ hip.

“How’s your bottom?” Porthos asks. He reaches around Aramis as well, anchors them all by putting his hand on Athos’ back. “You think you gonna be sore?”

Aramis squirms against him once more, and Athos fights a smile and loses. “Porthos, please. Let him recover.”

“What – I’m just askin’,” Porthos explains in a mildly bewildered tone. “I don’t want him to hurt, is all!”

“Just do not mention his bottom for a while,” Athos murmurs fondly. “He will think about it often enough as it is.”

“Will both of you please be quiet,” Aramis groans and pushes his face into Athos’ chest.

Porthos starts to laugh. “That’s how it is, eh? I might’ve known.”

Aramis makes a few helpless noises against Athos’ skin when Porthos’ laughter shakes through him, and Athos huffs in amusement, drops a kiss on Aramis’ head. “Do you want to sleep?”

“Ah, you won’t let me!” Aramis exclaims in muffled accents, his face still pressed against Athos, “you’ll keep me awake and tease me until I perish!”

“Dramatic,” is Porthos’ fond reply. “Go ahead and sleep, kitten – we’ll let you rest in peace.”

“Yes, we can certainly use some rest ourselves,” Athos adds, looking into Porthos’ eyes.

He has come out of this morning’s play unscathed, but he won’t claim that it did not exhaust him. It did so both physically and mentally.

That is quite alright though, and entirely expected. A few hours of sleep should restore him to his usual state, especially a few hours of sleep close to Aramis and Porthos.

Porthos smiles at him as though he is reading his thoughts, strokes his hand over Athos’ back. He does not say a word, keeps smiling at Athos until he closes his eyes – and even then Athos can still feel the warmth of that smile on his skin.

So he smiles in return, quite naturally, and falls asleep hiding it in Aramis’ hair.

 

Athos wakes up beneath a number of blankets and with Aramis’ head on his chest.

“He did it again,” Aramis murmurs before Athos even has one eye open, “he left us for _food_.”

Athos huffs out a surprised laugh, and Aramis lifts his head, gazes down at him with an affectionate grin. “You really are alright, aren’t you? You smiled in your sleep.”

“Yes, I am quite alright,” Athos confirms, “I enjoyed myself, even.” He gets a kiss as a reward – sweet and thorough.

“This I like, too,” he murmurs when Aramis releases his lips, “I am glad I could give you what you want.”

Aramis looks at him for a long moment in utter silence after that. His eyes are thoughtful, scan Athos’ face as though they want to memorize every inch of skin.

Once upon a time Athos would have felt uncomfortable under such scrutiny. While he will never revel in attention the way Aramis does, he now can enjoy his friend’s gaze without shrinking from it.

“What is it?” he asks eventually, when all Aramis does is keep looking at him. “What did I say?”

“Everything,” Aramis replies in an earnest voice – bites his lip when he realizes just how very grave he sounds. “You and Porthos … you probably don’t even realize it, but –“ He hesitates, smiles and takes a steadying breath. “You are just … you never stop giving; you never stop caring about what the other wants. That’s not … I have not met with that kind of attitude very often, you know?”

Athos knows he means it, is intimately aware of the truth underlying his words. He lifts his right hand out of the blankets and smoothes Aramis’ hair behind his ear. “I hope you like it this way?”

“More than I can say,” Aramis replies hoarsely. He turns his head, pushes his face into Athos’ hand and nuzzles his palm. “I am so very glad that you … that you didn’t –“

“I know,” Athos interrupts him gently. “I feel the same.”

Aramis kisses his palm before he looks at Athos again. “Was it really just the … the different – Was it because you –“

“It felt strangely right,” Athos interrupts him quietly. “I played a role, yes – but I was still myself. I did not feel degraded, and I realized that by giving you what you wanted, I did not degrade you either. I did not have to pretend. It was … it was _honest_.”

“Honest, hm?” Aramis says with a teasing smile. “So you like disciplining me?”

“I had a few years worth of built-up desire to do just that it seems, yes,” Athos drawls. “I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all,” Aramis replies with a little grin, and leans down to nuzzle Athos’ chest, leaves a trail of kisses, “not at all.”

The door to Aramis’ lodgings opens to let Porthos inside, and he grins wide enough to blind them when perceiving what Aramis is doing. “At it again, eh?”

He closes the door behind him and advances on the bed, trailing wet footprints and shedding snow flakes. “It’s snowin’ again.”

“So I see,” Athos drawls while Aramis’ mouth is busy on his naked skin. “You also brought food again. I wish you would give us a chance to provide for you for once.”

“I would perish waitin’ for you to stop kissin’,” Porthos claims with a wink. “This way you get to keep Aramis warm. That’s nice too, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Athos agrees with a smirk, and Aramis lifts his head for a moment, just to grin at him.

“Are you rested then?” Porthos asks while he divests himself of the food and his wet clothes. “Do you want me to light another fire?”

“Yes please,” Aramis says and draws his blankets closer around himself. “It has gotten so cold.”

“Ah, but that is only because Porthos went out,” Athos whispers to him, “you know how it gets warmer every time he is near.”

“I heard that,” Porthos informs them from his place in front of the hearth, “I’ll warm you up properly as soon as I’m done here.”

“Oddly enough it doesn’t sound like a threat,” Aramis murmurs in a delighted tone. He keeps looking at Athos, keeps staring at him as though he had something of importance on his mind.

After a moment it passes, and Aramis’ expression softens, turns helplessly fond. “If you keep using your words like that people will start to think you a romantic.”

“Well, you must not tell them, then,” Athos replies solemnly, “we cannot have such falsity spreading among the people of Paris.”

“No, we can’t have that,” Aramis agrees with an exaggerated frown. “They would try to take you away – and I like having you all to myself.”

“What’s that?” Porthos asks and turns his head to look at them over his shoulder – raises both brows, “I have a thing or two to say about that, don’t you think?”

“If you insist I’ll share him with you,” Aramis says generously, “but only because I love you so much.”

Porthos huffs and rises from his knees once a promising spark has come to life under his hands. “Lucky me.”

“We are all of us very lucky,” Athos says quietly, forestalling another one of Aramis’ witty rejoinders.

His reward is a doe-eyed smile, sweet and very nearly innocent. Aramis presses another kiss to his chest, and then he lifts his left hand out from underneath the blankets, puts it on Athos’ neck and rubs it over the scar. “Next you must allow Porthos and I to take proper care of you.”

Athos takes a fluttering breath and closes his eyes, is entirely unable to deny the wave of pleasure washing through him at the combination of those words and the touch to his skin. “What do you mean allow?” he inquires hoarsely. “You have been doing that for years, without any kind of permission. If I recall correctly, I explicitly _forbade_ you to do that once. It never stopped you.”

“Yeah, well, you were actin’ a bit stupid then,” Porthos says and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Bleedin’ too. Had to throw my bandana away afterwards cause I couldn’t get the blood out.”

“I did buy you a new one,” Athos replies with a small grin, “I was not that far lost to the ways of a gentleman.”

“You hid it in my saddlebag and claimed you had no idea how it got there when I found it!” Porthos exclaims, his eyes shining with mirth. “You didn’t even stop Aramis from spinnin’ outlandish stories about fairies visitin’ me in the night!”

Athos feels heat rise into his cheeks and bites his bottom lip. “I had forgotten that.”

It is a lie of course, but neither Aramis nor Porthos challenges it. Just like they never challenged his silence – his refusal to admit to buying them presents.

Aramis never even stopped to wonder about the rather more expensive gun oil finding its way into his supplies, all he did was grin – grin as they are grinning now, fond and maybe a little bit exasperated.

Aramis’ hand is still on his neck, and Athos puts his own over it, adds a little bit of pressure. “I will certainly allow you to take care of me this time. I no longer feel ashamed while you do.”

“Good,” Porthos murmurs and joins them under the blankets, “because we really enjoy makin’ you feel good.”

Aramis moves off Athos’ chest so Porthos can pull him into his arms, and Porthos promptly does – pulls Athos into an embrace and floods him with warmth. “There, how’s this?”

“Quite wonderful,” Athos replies, his voice thick with emotion, “I did mean it, you know? You are … are quite the warm presence.”

“Usin’ your words again, eh?” Porthos whispers and pulls Athos a little closer still. “I like that.”

“You know Aramis is the one who gets cold, do you not?” Athos gets out while his heartbeat quickens from being held so safely. “He … he is the one you should –“

“Actually, I’m fine where I am,” Aramis interrupts him, his mouth far too close to Athos’ ear. “Just go back to sleep, darling Athos.”

“Sadly, I am not at all tired,” Athos drawls. Nevertheless he keeps still, listens to Porthos’ heartbeat and matches his own to its pleasant steadiness. “Do you have any plans for today?”

“Why do you always ask that?” Aramis murmurs and kisses his shoulder. “What do you expect us to do in this weather? Take romantic walks in the snow? I’d rather not.”

Porthos chuckles and grins at Aramis, “You’d freeze your delicate little bottom off.”

Athos does not even try to hold back a smirk. “Do not talk about his bottom, Porthos, please – let him rest for one day at least.”

“You two are horrible and I loathe you,” Aramis proclaims in a tone that exposes him as a liar right away. “I don’t know why I bother with you, really. All you ever give me is –“

“Yes?” Athos inquires when Aramis stops rather abruptly and releases a harsh breath against his neck. “What shall it be, Aramis? Grief? Heartache? _Agony_?”

“He can’t answer, I’m touchin’ his bottom,” Porthos states casually. “Still tender, eh?”

“ _Porthos_ ,” Athos says in a mildly rebuking voice, making Porthos chuckle again.

“You said I shouldn’t talk about it – you never told me not to touch it.”

Aramis makes a helpless noise and pants against Athos’ neck from behind, and then he gets himself under control. “I think I’m going to feel that for a while yet.”

“You are sure you do not want any ointment on it?” Athos asks, turning around in Porthos’ embrace so he can look at Aramis’ face.

“I’m sure,” Aramis replies, cheeks flushed and smiling. “I really do enjoy the … memories.” He takes Athos’ hand in his, the one Athos spanked him with, and kisses its palm. “I’m already looking forward to all the other ones we’ll make.”


	20. Chapter 20

“If you wanted to be _alone_ on a mission, you could’ve just said so, you know?”

Thankfully the tavern is rather deserted this morning, otherwise Athos would ask d’Artagnan to mind his volume.

Two days have passed since they saw the boy last, leaving him at Constance’s just to be sent out on a murder investigation without him. D’Artagnan has taken it in very good humour so far, and Athos pretends not to have heard anything.

Porthos never mastered that tactic. “We said we’re sorry, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but did you _mean_ it?” d’Artagnan asks him with an impish grin. “You could have fooled me – the way you rushed off the other day. I won’t complain that you left me alone with Constance –”

“Well, we certainly won’t do that again, or invite you to breakfast, you ungrateful brat,” Aramis interrupts him while he tries to find a comfortable position on his chair, “and on our day off no less!”

D’Artagnan watches him squirm from left to right for a moment longer, his face morphing into a frown of puzzlement. “What is it with you – are you in pain?”

Porthos chuckles, and Athos schools his features into an expression of stoicism. For the boy will apply to him for enlightenment, as he so often does, and Athos really does not want to explain this one.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan inquires not a second later, looking at Athos out of wide, worried eyes. “Did he fall?”

“He did not,” Athos replies curtly, and tries to ignore the noise escaping Porthos, who is sitting opposite him at the table. Were it any other man, Athos would call it a giggle. Since it’s Porthos –

“Then what did he do?” d’Artagnan perseveres, “Look at him – he can’t even sit still, what –“ He stops talking to look around, gets up, and comes back with an old, dusty cushion he hands to Aramis. “Here.”

Aramis thanks him meekly, stands up from his chair to put the cushion on it, and sinks down on it with a sigh of relief.

D’Artagnan regards him from beneath troubled brows. “Did someone hit you?”

Athos wishes Aramis would refrain from staring at him in search of support. It is rather too obvious, and d’Artagnan far too –

“ _Athos_ hit you?” the boy blurts out, his voice tinged with alarm. “Why would he –“ He stops, flushes, and groans. “I hate you.”

“Well, to be fair, we did not tell you for a reason,” Athos drawls, entirely unwilling to allow even a smidgen of embarrassment into his heart. “You brought this on yourself.” He takes a sip of ale that hardly deserves to be called that, and puts the tankard back on the table. “As did Aramis.”

Porthos laughs out loud at that, winks at Athos and claps Aramis’ shoulder, who is grinning as well even while he winces under the force of Porthos’ treatment.

D’Artagnan looks mildly amused. “I really did, didn’t I?”

Aramis clears his throat. “Now that this matter is, ah, out in the open, let’s discuss something else.” He grins, bright and mischievous. “How’s Constance?”

Athos wants to step on his foot beneath the table, but apparently Porthos is already doing it for him – Aramis yelps.

D’Artagnan very wisely does not ask this time. “She’s fine,” he replies in a quiet voice, “… as much as she can be, I guess. He’s not treating her right … never has.”

“We need to get her out of the house then,” Aramis says, surprisingly sensible. He is still wincing, now nursing a hurting foot in addition to everything else. “Whatever the relationship between you and her, the one between Constace and Bonacieux has never been … quite worthwhile.” He clears his throat in a rather delicate manner. “Any suggestions?”

“I could ask Alice for help,” Porthos muses, arms crossed over his chest. “She might know of some gentlewoman in search of a companion.” He quirks an eyebrow at Aramis, as though challenging him to fight that proposal. “If you don’t mind.”

“I always mind,” Aramis replies with a helpless shrug, “but that shouldn’t stop you.”

D’Artagnan bites his lip, apparently ill at ease with this admission of Aramis’ jealousy.

Athos and Porthos share a glance, and Porthos tilts his head, reaches out his hand to Aramis, clasps his wrist. “You know it _would_ stop me – I’d stop anythin’ that gave you cause for –“

“I know,” Aramis interrupts him gently, “that’s why I told you not to mind me. You never give me cause in the first place.” He leans back in his chair, looks at Porthos through his lashes. “I do trust you. Always.”

D’Artagnan looks at Athos, no longer uncomfortable but grinning in a strangely fond manner – as though he wants to convey that Athos has picked his lovers wisely.

Athos allows the ghost of a smile to take over his face and slowly shakes his head.

D’Artagnan should know by now that Athos did not pick Aramis and Porthos. They picked him, so many years ago, and never wavered from that decision.

He does not think they ever will. Not anymore.

 

The four of them finish their breakfast in a leisurely manner – occupy their table for much longer than would have been possible if they had patrol duties.

The only patron in attendance apart from them is an elderly man who is occupying the opposite corner – ignoring them in favour of smoking his pipe and blowing elaborate smoke-rings into the taproom.

Thus the tavern is pleasantly quiet, and both Aramis and Athos eat more than their usual share this morning.

Porthos watches them while he takes care of his own portion, looking visibly satisfied – both with the food and the fact that Athos and Aramis are showing signs of actual appetite for once. Their reward is one of his more subdued smiles, slow and lasting, warming every inch of Athos’ body.

He understands why it is so very important to Porthos that they eat – why he does not want them to go hungry – but still he cannot stop himself from smirking. “You had better not expect us to eat like this every day.”

Porthos winks at him. “You wouldn’t know where to put it anyway.”

“Too true,” Aramis admits with a sigh and finishes his last morsel, pushes his chair backward and stretches out his legs. “We would soon be rather out of shape.” He winces slightly when he changes position, and Athos regards him with as much sympathy as amusement.

“How about we go for a stroll … redistribute all this new weight?”

Aramis ducks his head and smiles, looks at Athos through his lashes. “You don’t want to stay here anymore?”

“We have occupied the table long enough,” Athos drawls in answer, “I believe our host will be glad to see us go.”

So they get up, pay their debt and leave – step out into the forenoon sun of a cloudless winter day.

The snow, while not completely melted, is far from pristine. It has joined the usual refuse lining the streets and merely added a new aspect to them – that of the half-frozen surprise, as Aramis likes to call it.

“Mind where you step,” he promptly advises them while he pulls up his shoulders, “I’m not catching anyone today.”

“So you want me to let you drop on your ass when you inevitably slip, is that what you’re sayin’?” Porthos inquires in an innocent tone of voice while he fusses with Athos’ scarf and pulls it a little higher on his neck. “Because I can do that if that’s what you want.”

Aramis very wisely keeps quiet, while d’Artagnan laughs and pats his shoulder. “And this is where I take my leave of you.”

“Eh, why’s that?” Porthos asks, and turns his head to look at the boy – his hands still on Athos’ scarf. “You don’t wanna walk with us a bit?”

“I would like to, but I promised Constance to help her deliver some orders to her customers since her maid has fallen ill, and –“

“Yeah, alright, off with you,” Porthos dismisses him with a chuckle. “Give her our love, will ya?”

“But not too enthusiastically,” Aramis adds with a leer, and dances away from Porthos when he moves to stomp on his foot again.

The swift movement promptly makes him lose his footing on a frozen puddle hidden from sight by a thin veneer of snow. He yelps and reaches out both of his arms, and Athos and Porthos move as one to grab him and keep him upright.

D’Artagnan looks suitably impressed. “You should demand an entry-fee.” He makes his way down the street, and disappears around the corner with a friendly wave before Aramis can execute some form of retribution.

Aramis has no mind to do that anyway. He is still somewhat wide-eyed, is clinging to Athos and Porthos with both hands. They allow him to hold on to them, straighten his hat and jacket for him.

“There,” Porthos grunts when he is finished, “what do you say?”

“Thank you,” Aramis replies fervently. “That would have hurt more than usual.”

“That I can very well imagine,” Athos drawls under his breath. He looks at Aramis from beneath the rim of his hat and smiles, very softly. “I hope you do not regret our encounter now?”

“Never,” Aramis assures him with a blinding smile. “In fact, I would like to do it again as soon as –“

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos interrupts him gruffly and turns him bodily around so he faces southwards down the street. “As soon as you’re no longer black’n’blue, we can do that. So take care not to fall on your ass, yeah?”

He gives Aramis a gentle push to set him in motion, and Athos walks with them, takes a few deep breaths of the cold winter air. The sunlight feels very pleasant on his face, as does Porthos’ steady presence to his left.

“Where are we going?” Aramis inquires after a moment of silence, and Athos grins, is not at all surprised when Porthos proclaims that they are taking a walk.

“Why would we do that?” Aramis demands to know. “It’s cold! I _already_ slipped and nearly fell!”

“We are aware,” Athos replies serenely. “Nevertheless – we are taking a walk. We can spend the rest of the day cooped-up indoors afterwards, if you insist.”

Aramis puts both hands on his chest, as though protecting his heart from danger. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing!”

“Sometimes I like a bit of fresh air,” Porthos grunts and steps around a puddle of somewhat suspect colouring, “as long as I know there’ll be a warm fire afterwards.”

“Ah, there will be,” Aramis announces, “a warm fire and blankets.”

“See, now you have somethin’ to look forward to,” Porthos teases him with a fond grin – which promptly falls off his face when he hears someone shouting for help at a little distance.

He does not stop to think, asks neither Aramis nor Athos to come with him.

He knows they will.

So he runs off, into the direction of the screams – runs down the street and around the corner with Aramis and Athos directly behind him on the slippery cobbles.

Rounding the corner they come upon the scene of a robbery – executed in bright daylight by three men who certainly look desperate enough to attempt such an act of foolishness.

Soon enough Athos realizes that the robbers must be complete and utter idiots indeed. Instead of relinquishing their weapons when three of the King’s Musketeers arrive, they let go of their victim to ‘take care of those bastards’ first – a plan their leader voices without apparent doubt or discomfort.

The following fight does not take very long.

Their assailants are not very handy with their knives, at least not against swords. Athos disarms his man just in time to see Aramis suffer a cut to his arm – sees Porthos’ opponent fly sideways and into Aramis as though he prefers to stick his knife in someone while he still can.

He takes Aramis by surprise, and surprise, in this case, is everything.

Be that as it may, it still is an immensely stupid idea. Possibly the worst out of the stupid ideas the trio had today.

Porthos does not approve of people sticking their knives in Aramis. He never has.

He growls, tackles his opponent to the ground, and takes Aramis’ with him while he’s at it. A short scramble follows, ended by Porthos knocking their heads together, rendering them unconscious.

Once that is done he comes quickly back to his feet. When he turns around Aramis is staring at him, eyes wide open and glinting. “I love when you do that.”

The grim, worried look vanishes from Porthos’ features and he grins, steps up to Aramis and reaches out his hand, “Let me see.”

Athos is forced to keep an eye on his captive while Porthos inspects Aramis’ wound, and for once in his life he feels a glimmer of welcome at the sight of a patrol of Red Guards.

“Take them away on charge of armed robbery,” he tells the men, advises their victim to make a proper report, and turns towards Aramis and Porthos as soon as that is done. “Is he alright?”

“I’d feel better if we clean it and maybe stitch it up a bit,” Porthos murmurs. “Nothin’s damaged, but the blade went deep at the tip.”

“This is what happens when you force me to take a walk,” Aramis comments, bright-eyed and flushed. He allows Athos and Porthos to lead him away from the scene of their fight, smiles at both of them when they take his arms to steady him.

“Admit that the fight was the best part for you,” Athos drawls as they walk down the street, “I know that look on your face. I have seen it often enough by now.”

“It’s really close to that other one,” Porthos muses quietly. “You know, the face he makes when –“

“Yes, I quite agree,” Athos interrupts him with a smirk. “You do not exclusively enjoy violence in women, do you, Aramis?”

“Keep this up and you’ll have to discipline me again once we get home,” Aramis replies in a hoarse whisper, even more flushed than he’d been before.

Athos and Porthos share a glance at that, and keep silent for the rest of the way. As much as they enjoy teasing Aramis, taking care of his wound is rather more important.

Thus they lead him to his lodgings by the fastest way, take a few shortcuts. Athos takes Aramis’ key from him to unlock the door and re-lock it behind them, joins Porthos in his task of walking Aramis over to his bed. There they divest him of his hat and jacket ere they make him sit down.

“I love how you treat me like an invalid because of this scratch,” Aramis tells them with one of his bright grins while Porthos gently folds his shirt sleeve up towards his elbow to lay the wound bare. “Will there be broth and gruel later? Will you feed me?”

“I’ll feed you somethin’ alright,” Porthos growls under his breath and stalks off to get their sewing supplies.

Athos smiles when Aramis flushes again. “That one you brought on yourself.”

Aramis lifts his unhurt arm and rakes his fingers through his hair, looking sheepish, “I do that a lot, don’t I?”

“You show a clear tendency, yes,” Athos drawls in reply. “One could almost think you were doing it on purpose.”

“Surprisingly, most of the time I’m not,” Aramis replies – turns his head when he hears Porthos rummaging through his cabinets, “What _are_ you doing?”

“Lookin’ for fresh bandages,” Porthos mumbles while opening another drawer, “you’ve none left in your –“

“Not there!” Aramis exclaims in an agitated voice, “there’s nothing in there!”

“What’s this then?” Porthos asks with a puzzled frown, pulling out what appears to be a rather broad strip of dark brown leather. “What’d you want with – oh.”

Athos watches him flush, perceives a rather feverish glow on Aramis’ face, and lifts his brow. “Am I missing something?”

For a very long moment his question is greeted with nothing but silence.

“It’s a collar,” Porthos eventually says, his voice low and rough, “a really nice one.”

Athos goes hot all over.

He takes a deep breath, and then another one, clears his mind, and then his throat. “Where are those fresh bandages then?”

“In – in the chest,” Aramis stammers, looks up at him out of wide, nervous eyes, “in the linen bag.”

“I shall find them,” Athos says quietly, and he does not dare meet Porthos’ eyes out of fear what he might see there, “please take care of his wound in the meantime, Porthos.”

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos murmurs, puts the collar back into the drawer and closes it, “I can do that.”

Athos moves towards the chest, bows over it to open its lid – tries to breathe, tries to keep his heart from escaping from the cage of his ribs.

A collar.

_A nice one._

He closes his eyes for a moment, sees nothing but stars explode and fall behind his lids.

The scar on his neck seems to flare with heat for a heartbeat or two, itches to be touched.

“I bought it for you,” he suddenly hears Aramis’ voice behind him, “the morning after you’d let me …”

Aramis clears his throat, sounds guilty and nervous all at once. “I was waiting … waiting for the right moment to give it to you. Only then that _night_ happened, and I didn’t know anymore – I didn’t know anymore if you’d even want that, and I –“ He stops and hisses, and Athos turns around to see Porthos stitch up his wound.

“Sorry,” Porthos murmurs soothingly, cranes his neck to press a kiss to Aramis’ lips, “didn’t wanna hurt ya.” He turns his head to look at Athos, looks into his eyes, “Did you find the bandages, love? I’m almost done here.”

“I found them,” Athos hears himself say. He gets up with the linen bag in his hand, brings it over to the bed. He stares down at the stitches holding Aramis’ skin together, blinks, and takes a deep breath. “Those look very good, Porthos.”

“Thank you,” Porthos replies warmly, takes the bag off Athos’ hands and takes out a bandage. He wraps it around Aramis’ forearm with expert fingers and fixes it with a tidy little knot. “There, all new.”

He straightens from his crouching position in front of the bed, hesitates for a moment. Then he huffs, shakes his head, and makes Athos sit next to Aramis with gentle pressure on his shoulder. “Now we can talk about that other thing.”

Aramis promptly hangs his head, lets his hair fall into his eyes, “I’m sorry. I was rash. I should’ve asked first.”

Athos is glad that he does not sound as desperate as he usually does in situations like this. He is genuinely contrite, yes – but nothing more.

“Well, it’s not like you sprung the thing on us,” Porthos says reasonably. “Was me who did that. Teaches me to go through your stuff without askin’, really.” He clears his throat. “You alright, love?”

“I feel hot,” Athos says quietly – without thinking, just lets the words out, “even … even the thought of you putting it on me, it … it makes me feel hot.”

Porthos lets out a harsh breath, and his hand comes up to Athos’ head, cradles it in his palm. “You like the idea, eh?” He brushes his thumb over Athos’ temple. “Wanna touch it maybe, have a proper look?”

“Yes,” Athos says softly. He feels himself slipping, and does nothing to stop it – has no reason to stop it, “yes please.”

Aramis lifts his head then. He regards Athos for a moment, and Athos shivers under his gaze, licks his lips and lifts his chin, endures it quietly.

Eventually Aramis stands up. “I’ll get it.”

Porthos remains where he is while Aramis moves through the room, rubs his thumb over Athos’ temple, makes him feel safe and protected. “The last few days were pretty exhaustin’, eh love? Time for us to relax a little, what do you say?”

His voice is quiet and serene, and his offer moves through Athos like a hot bath, soaks him in warmth.

“I would like that,” he replies, looks up into Porthos’ eyes and smiles, “it always feels so good.”

“Yeah, it does,” Porthos agrees, smiling back. He crouches down in front of Athos, pulls him in for a kiss, “You want Aramis ‘n me to take care of you? Make you feel really good?”

“Yes,” Athos says, just as Aramis returns to the bed, the collar in his hands, “yes, I want that.” He looks up at Aramis’ face and back down at Aramis’ hands, licks his lips.

The leather looks dark against Aramis’ skin, looks almost alive, and Athos can’t wait to have it on him. “Can I touch it?”

“Of course,” Aramis whispers in reply, his voice warm, “I bought it for you.” He holds the collar out for Athos to touch, and Athos does, feels it between his fingers, wonderfully smooth and supple. It warms to his touch, and he imagines how it would feel strapped around his neck, bites his lip to hold in a moan.

“I wanted you to have something special,” Aramis murmurs, and his voice moves over Athos like a physical touch, gentle and affectionate, “something just for you.”

“It … it must have been so expensive,” Athos says. His mind is already drifting, his body ready to be of use.

Aramis reaches out his hand, cups the left side of Athos’ face while Porthos is still cradling the right. “You’re worth it, darling.”

Athos moans and closes his eyes, presses into Aramis’ touch. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Aramis whispers, “so much.”

Athos falls, falls and falls without ever reaching the ground. There is no ground, not this time.

“Please,” he begs, “put it on me.”

“Anything you want,” Aramis replies. His voice his hoarse but his touch remains steady until he pulls back his hand.

Porthos stands up to give him room, and Athos opens his eyes, keeps completely still while Aramis gently removes the scarf around his neck to replace it with the collar. He puts it over the scar, over Athos’ pulse, closes it slowly.

It feels good on Athos’ skin, does not bite into it but presses down on it as gently as a lover’s touch. Aramis makes it just tight enough, pushes a finger between the leather and Athos’ neck to make sure Athos is comfortable – makes Athos feel feverish with need.

“Thank you,” he says. He takes a few shallow breaths, wide-eyed and overwhelmed.

Porthos’ hand is still on him, is still cradling his head, and Athos leans into his touch, ever so lightly. They are standing side by side in front of him, Aramis and Porthos … are looking down at him with such love in their eyes that it makes Athos feel weak with gratitude.

“You alright, love?” Porthos asks, brushes his thumb back and forth over Athos’ temple, infinitely gently, “You like the feel?”

“Feels so good,” Athos whispers, already precariously close to moaning. His lids are drooping, and he looks at Porthos from underneath his lashes, smiles at him. “Thank you so much.”

“You wanna keep it on?” Porthos asks, smiling back at him, “You wanna wear it while Aramis ‘n me take care of you?”

His voice flows through Athos like warm wine, makes him feel drunk with pleasure and heat. “Yes – yes, please,” he murmurs, shifts his gaze to Aramis’ face, “please let me keep it.”

“’M gonna light a fire,” Porthos says in a decisive tone, drops a kiss on Athos’ forehead and slowly lets go of him. “Aramis’ll get you nice ‘n naked in the meantime.”

He moves away, and out of Athos’ line of sight, and Athos stares up at Aramis, helpless and eager. “Can I keep it?”

“Of course you can, darling,” Aramis replies softly, crouches down in front of Athos and looks up at him out of shimmering black eyes. “I’m just so very glad you like it.”

He slowly reaches up to the collar, puts a finger through the silver ring worked into the leather at the front, and pulls, ever so gently.

The resulting pressure on Athos’ neck shoots through him like a flash, shoots down to his cock and makes him moan, lips parted and eyes closed. “Aramis!”

“It looks so very pretty on you,” he hears Aramis whisper, “makes your skin look so pale and smooth …” He pulls on the ring again, a little harder this time, and Athos’ whole body rocks forward, burning with need.

“Aramis, please …”

“I love you,” Aramis tells him, his voice broken and rough, “Come here, let me –“

He pulls Athos forward by the ring on the collar, pulls him off the bed and into his arms and kisses him, muffles Athos’ moan with his lips.

Neither of them have any finesse left; it is a wanton kiss, wet and unrestrained, and Athos clings to Aramis with both hands.

The collar around Athos’ neck sends a little bolt of pressure through him with every breath that he takes, and thus every breath that he takes makes him a little more helpless … a little more aroused.

Eventually Porthos returns to them, stands beside them in silence for a moment, and clears his throat. “I see he isn’t naked yet.”

The statement inspires Aramis to take his mouth away, and Athos whines, pushes his head forward and into Aramis’ neck.

“It wasn’t warm enough yet,” Aramis pants, rubs his hands over Athos’ back, keeps him safe inside his arms. “I want him to be comfortable.”

“Fair enough,” Porthos huffs, crouches down next to them and pets Athos’ head. “Is he bein’ good to you, love?”

Athos whimpers and nods, and stays right where he is.

Porthos chuckles. “Very good. You wanna hear my plan for how we’re gonna take care of you?”

He puts his hand on the back of Athos’ neck, and Athos realizes there’s another ring there. Porthos makes good use of it, pulls Athos’ face away from Aramis and makes his eyes roll back into his head. “You’re gonna suck Aramis’ cock while I get you nice and slick for him, so he can finish inside you, how’s that sound?”

Porthos’ voice is low and filthy, and the mere suggestion of this course of action makes Athos’ hardening cock twitch inside his smallclothes. It does so again when Porthos resumes speaking, “Once he’s taken proper care of you, I’ll take over, fill you up again.”

Athos whimpers and nods, as much as the pull on his neck allows it. “Yes, yes, _please_ , I want that.”

Porthos slowly lets go of him then, brushes the hair out of Athos’ face and looks into his eyes, “You really like your collar, don’t you, love?”

“I love it,” Athos moans, completely honest, doesn’t even know how to lie and hold back anymore. “I love you – I love –“

Porthos pulls him to his feet, gentle but determined, and Athos moans again – cannot help his body’s reaction to the lightest touch … his reaction to this show of Porthos’ strength.

He feels as though he was on fire – but _softly_ , as though the flames would never consume, never burn him. He sways, once he is standing upright, and both Aramis and Porthos keep their hands on him, prevent him from falling.

“Come here,” Porthos whispers, “let me get your clothes off, eh? I wanna see how you look when you’re wearin’ nothin’ but your collar.”

He gets Athos out of his jacket, and pulls the shirt over his head, looks at Athos for a long moment. “You really picked a nice one, Aramis.”

“Yes, I’m rather satisfied with it myself,” Aramis replies distractedly.

They do not sound as though they are talking about the collar – at least not exclusively – and Athos flushes, bites his lips and tries to keep still for them.

He enjoys the way they are looking at him, grows more aroused under their eyes than he has ever been before. Hot shivers of pleasure are trickling down his neck, and he does not lower his gaze, keeps his chin up and savours the experience.

Each breath brings a new wave of pleasure with it, and his scar feels especially hot beneath the collar, makes him want to sink to his knees and be good for his lovers – do everything they ask of him.

He licks his lips when Aramis steps forward to unlace his trousers, keeps himself as still as he can, even when Aramis’ fingertips brush over his hard cock, the sensation muted by the leather.

“You look so pretty,” Aramis whispers to him, one hand on the lacing, while the other plays with the silver ring on the collar, “You’ll look so good on your hands and knees for us. We’ll take such good care of you, darling, make you feel so good.”

The lacing gives, and Aramis smiles, sneaks his fingers inside Athos’ trousers, cups him through his linen. “Maybe I should take care of you right away, hm? Take the edge off … make you feel all nice and relaxed?”

Athos instinctively looks at Porthos, eyes wide open and pleading, and Aramis huffs, infinitely fond. “What do you say, Porthos? Should I do that to him?”

“’M all for it,” Porthos replies, his voice a low rumble inside his chest, “It’ll make him all soft and open – will make it so much easier for me to get him ready for you.”

Athos whimpers and locks his knees, has no idea how a voice alone could make him feel so helpless – could bring him so close to falling.

Aramis merely smiles. “How could we say no to that?” He unlaces Athos’ smallclothes and pushes his hand inside – puts his free hand on Athos’ chest and turns Athos around until he is standing with his left shoulder to the bed. “Stand behind him please, dearest Porthos – hold him up, yes?”

Porthos chuckles and obliges, puts his arm around Athos’ middle, brings his free hand up to Athos’ neck, circles it around the collar. “I can do that.”

He is a secure wall of heat all along Athos’ back, and Athos moans and bucks his hips – only increases the pressure of Aramis’ hand on his cock.

Athos loves to have Porthos at his back, has always loved it. The combination of the collar and Porthos’ hand around his neck is the most delicious form of seduction he has ever encountered, makes him feel drunk with lust. He knows of no way to resist it, would not even try to if he did.

His lips are parted, ready and waiting, and Aramis leans in, pushes his tongue between them and takes control of Athos’ mouth.

Porthos makes a satisfied noise behind him, and Athos whimpers. It feels so good to be held between them like this.

He closes his eyes and gives in – pushes into Aramis’ hand and opens his mouth wider for him, allows Aramis to take everything he might desire.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Porthos whispers into his ear, rubs his own cock against Athos’ ass, “just like that, love … let ‘im have everythin’.”

His words engrave themselves in Athos’ mind, and he moans again, sucks on Aramis tongue and tries to spread his legs – to open himself up, to –

“Shht, love, it’s alright, we got you,” Porthos murmurs, presses a kiss behind Athos’ left ear. “Just come for us, we’ll do the rest.”

He squeezes Athos’ neck while he says it, ever so lightly – puts additional pressure on the leather collar. Athos’ eyes fly open as he comes – into Aramis hand, his moan muffled by Aramis’ mouth on his.

“Very good,” Porthos whispers into Athos’ ear, lets go of the collar, rubs his hand over Athos’ naked chest, gentle and comforting, “you did so well, love … you’re always so good for us – isn’t he, Aramis?”

“Yes,” Aramis whispers – against Athos’ lips, kisses them one last time before he pulls back, “such a beautiful darling, so perfect for us.”

He pulls his hand off Athos’ cock, hesitates for a second and lifts it to Athos’ face, “Do you maybe want to –“

Athos does not let him finish, makes an eager noise and leans forward, starts to lick him clean.

“He likes to use his mouth,” Porthos comments quietly, still a steady presence at Athos’ back, “always has. Isn’t that right, love?”

Athos makes an affirmative noise and closes his eyes.

He feels wonderful, light and floating and perfectly secure. Porthos is holding him up, is holding him safe while Athos drags his tongue over Aramis’ palm and sucks on his fingers, each one in turn, until there is no evidence of his release left on them.

“Thank you,” Aramis breathes out once it is done, rubs his thumb over Athos’ bottom lip and leans in to kiss him, “you did very well, darling.”

Athos smiles and opens his eyes, looks at Aramis’ face. “I want to suck you off now, please.”

Aramis takes a sharp breath, and his eyes flicker to the side, stare at Porthos for a second.

If Athos is not quite mistaken, Porthos merely shrugs in answer to the silent amazement in Aramis’ eyes. “That was the plan. But first we get him naked, eh?”

“Yes,” Aramis sighs, licks his lips and gives Athos another kiss, “we’ll have to be careful you don’t make me come before we can execute that marvellous plan Porthos has come up with.”

He pushes all the annoying fabric off Athos’ hips and makes him sit on the bed – divests him of his boots, then of his trousers, and finally of his undergarments.

“There,” he says, smiling up at Athos from his crouched position, “all done.”

Athos glows beneath his gaze, feels safe in his nudity, maybe more than he ever has.

“Ready to go on, love?” Porthos asks. He takes off his own jacket and shirt and pushes off his boots, strips out of his trousers. “Or do you need a moment?”

“I want to go on,” Athos says dreamily, breathing against the collar around his neck, “I want you inside.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Hear that, Aramis?” Porthos murmurs, straightening to his full height and looking down at Athos with fire in his eyes, “he wants to go on.”

“Yes, I heard,” Aramis replies. He moves a little closer to Athos, goes to his knees in front of him and puts his hands on Athos’ thighs, drags them slowly up and down. “He wants us inside.”

Athos shivers beneath his touch, licks his lips and spreads his legs wider. “Please … please make use of me.”

“Ah, we will,” Aramis promises him with a smile, digs his fingertips in Athos’ skin and makes Athos gasp in pleasure. “We’ll use you just the way you like – on your knees … filled at both ends.”

Athos moans and smiles, bites his bottom lip. “Thank you.”

Aramis smiles back at him and gets up to press a kiss to Athos’ lips. “What do you say, Porthos – how do you want him?”

“On his knees in front of the bed. I think you’d better sit down for this one.” He gently touches Aramis’ bandaged arm while saying the words, and Athos blinks as a smidgen of awareness returns to him.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine, darling, don’t you worry,” Aramis rushes to calm him. “This won’t stop me from taking care of you.” He combs his fingers through Athos’ hair, brushes his fingertips over Athos’ scalp. “You just relax and leave everything to us.”

Athos trusts him more than he trusts the sun to rise in the morning, so he does - he relaxes and closes his eyes under the gentle touch ... succumbs.

The fire has had time to warm the room, and he feels good being naked for his lovers – feels good wearing nothing but the collar around his neck.

It is a symbol of their love for him, a symbol of his trust in them. They are not his masters but his _caregivers_ , looking after him and watching him – protecting him.

Athos will offer them anything they might want, because they always give back more than they take, because they always give him so much more than he deserves … more than anyone would deserve.

Aramis moves to undress himself, giving Porthos room to spread a number of blankets in front of the bed. Porthos puts the softest one on top, as he always does, and Athos watches him out of adoring eyes, smiling quietly to himself.

His orgasm is still lingering, is still filling him with light and warmth, and not even the anticipation growing inside of him can disrupt his comfort.

Aramis and Porthos will take care of him.

They always do.

“All ready,” Porthos proclaims once he is done, and turns his head to see how Aramis is faring. When he finds him naked, he grins, slow and satisfied, and turns back to Athos. “How about you, love? You ready too?”

“Yes,” Athos replies softly, spreads his legs a little wider and lifts his chin. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Beautiful,” Porthos praises him, leans in for a kiss and proceeds to pull Athos off the bed by the ring on his collar – gently, ever so slowly, “you are so very beautiful, love.”

He pulls Athos into his arms, wraps him up in them and presses his mouth to Athos’, kisses him in that slow, languid way of his, gentle and thorough.

It makes Athos melt into him, makes him go weak in the knees, utterly boneless – and he whines, not because it’s not enough, but because it is too much.

Porthos’ kisses always are, in a way. They make Athos feel safe, send a trickle of warmth all the way through him, right into his very bones.

There is a comfort and safety in Porthos’ arms that gives Athos more serenity than he knows what to do with.

“I love you,” Athos whispers when Porthos pulls back – when he releases his mouth and brushes the hair off Athos’ forehead. “I love you, Porthos.”

“I know,” Porthos whispers back, his voice low and warm, “I’ve always known.”

Athos leans into his touch and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

It is important that Porthos can sound so _sure_ – that he does not need the words, but appreciates them nevertheless.

“Come on then, love,” Porthos says, brushing his thumb over Athos’ cheekbone, “down on your knees, eh? Aramis is waitin’ for us.”

“Yes,” Athos murmurs, licks his lips and opens his eyes, “I want to be good for him.”

“You always are,” Porthos assures him with a smile. He leads Athos where he wants him to be, makes him stand in front of Aramis, who is already sitting on the bed.

Aramis is naked but for the rosary around his neck, and while the symbolism and symmetry are lost on Athos in his current state, he does appreciate the visual all the same.

He yields to the pressure Porthos puts on his shoulder, goes down to his knees on the pile of blankets Porthos prepared for him … and smiles.

“Is that good for you, darling?” Aramis asks him, and Athos cannot help himself, cannot stop staring at Aramis’ cock, hard and heavy between his legs, already leaking at the tip.

Athos’ stomach jumps at the sight, and his lips part eagerly. “Yes. It is …” He takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. “I am good.”

“See somethin’ you like, love?” Porthos whispers in his ear, and Athos shivers – nods his head.

“Yes.”

He feels hot all over, and his mind is drifting so high that he would lose all connection to the ground if it wasn’t for the collar around his neck, binding him to Porthos and Aramis.

“Want him in your mouth while I open you up?” Porthos murmurs ... strokes his hand over Athos’ back and down to his ass, squeezes it gently. “‘S that what you want?”

“Yes, please,” Athos hears himself say. He is more than ready to fall again, has never fully stopped floating since they began this. “Please let me.”

“Do you remember what you have to do to make it stop?” Porthos asks him, and his voice sounds different now, utterly protective.

“I pinch Aramis,” Athos replies, and smiles quite automatically when Porthos chuckles.

“That’s it, love – you do just that.”

Aramis smiles too, brushes the hair off Athos’ forehead and cups his cheek. “Come on then, darling – make me feel good.”

Athos comes willingly when Aramis pulls him forward, bows his head and closes his eyes, opens his mouth.

He has always loved sucking cock, ever since Porthos taught him on their first night together. He loves that he can do this for Aramis now, that he will be of use and give him pleasure.

“Use your hands if you want to,” Aramis whispers as he guides him down and over his cock, “I want to know how you like it best, my darling.”

Athos moans and swallows him down, puts his hands on Aramis’ hips and shivers.

“There you go, love, all set,” Porthos murmurs behind him, strokes his hand over Athos’ back again. “I’m gonna go get the oil, you’ll get started without me.”

He straightens and steps away, but Athos is too distracted by Aramis’ smell and taste to miss him.

Porthos will come back, Athos knows that; he will come back and fill him up, just like he promised.

A flame of arousal coils inside him at the thought, and he swallows around the cock in his mouth, breathes in through his nose and starts to move his head. Aramis tastes different than Porthos, has a different feel to him, and Athos is happy that he is allowed to explore him with all his senses.

He strokes his hands over Aramis’ hips while he sucks on the tip of his cock, scratches his nails over Aramis’ skin.

When Aramis gasps and bucks up into his mouth, when he pushes deeper than Athos had anticipated, it shoots all the way through him and right into his core. He moans, is so helplessly aroused that it moves like molten lead through his veins – makes him take Aramis as deep into his mouth as he can.

He loves the burning sensation in his throat, so he whines when Aramis weaves his fingers into his hair to pull him off. He opens his eyes, wet with tears, and directs a pleading stare at Aramis. “Please –“

“Everything, darling,” Aramis soothes him with a gentle voice, “I’ll give you everything, don’t worry. It’s just that Porthos has returned to us.” He strokes his hand through Athos’ hair and smiles at him. “I want to hear your voice when he opens you up.”

Athos turns his face into his hand and pants, automatically spreads his thighs a little wider when he feels Porthos’ heat behind him.

It will feel so good, having Porthos’ fingers inside.

“Very good,” Porthos praises him, strokes one of his big, rough hands over Athos’ ass and makes him squirm, “spread your legs for me love, just a little more.” He puts his hand between Athos’ legs while Athos obeys, strokes down his half-hard cock and up his cleft. “You’re enjoyin’ yourself, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers, and he clenches when Porthos drags his thumb over his hole, pushes his ass back, “you’re so good to me.”

“Because we love you so much,” Aramis tells him in a voice so warm that it sends another shiver through Athos, “because you are so very precious to us, darling.”

“Very precious,” Porthos echoes. He pulls his hand off Athos’ ass, only to bring it back with his fingers drenched in oil, slippery and warm. “You ready, love?”

“Yes,” Athos moans, clings to Aramis’ hips and gasps when Porthos pushes inside not a heartbeat later.

“See, I told you you’d be all relaxed and loose for me if we made you come first,” Porthos comments in a low voice. “Still feelin’ good, love?”

All Athos can do is nod.

Aramis cards his fingers through his hair, soothing, gentle. “He looks very happy,” he tells Porthos softly. “All flushed and glowing.”

“Good,” Porthos says, the smile audible in his voice. “Why don’t you go on suckin’ Aramis’ cock then, eh love? You wanna do that, don’t you?”

Athos does not even wait to confirm. He cranes his neck and takes Aramis back into his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut in pleasure when Porthos slides his finger deeper into him.

He feels so good, mouth and ass filled, on his knees between Aramis and Porthos. Aramis is breathing harshly above him, has both hands tangled in Athos’ hair now, and he keeps stroking it and pulling on it in turn, drives Athos mad with bliss.

“Porthos taught you so well, darling,” he whispers to Athos. The strain on his voice is evident, and Athos moans, takes him deeper, takes him all the way down and swallows.

“So, so well,” Aramis gasps, pulling on Athos’ hair again, ever so lightly. “You’re doing so good, make me – make me feel so good.”

Porthos is curling his finger inside Athos, makes him squirm, and Aramis gasps again, pushes up and into Athos’ mouth once more.

“You two be careful, yeah?” Porthos cautions when that results in unrestrained moaning from both of them. “Pull him up a bit, Aramis.”

Athos whines when Aramis follows that request, but the reward for his obedience is immediate.

Porthos pushes another finger inside, just as warm and slick as the first, and Athos moans around Aramis’ cock, licks over the tip and takes him deeper again just as soon as Aramis lets him.

He feels perfectly safe, feels wonderfully _full_ , and he does not want it to end, does not want –

Porthos spreads his fingers inside him and Athos whimpers as his eyes roll back into his head behind closed lids.

His arousal is steadily rising, is consuming him more and more despite the serenity his orgasm brought him. It feels like sinking into warm snow, gradual and inevitable, and Athos lets Aramis’ cock slide out of his mouth, needs to breathe, needs to –

“Are you alright, darling?” Aramis asks, his voice tender and warm, and Athos opens his eyes to look up at him. “Is Porthos making you feel good?”

Aramis’ face is flushed, and his hair is hanging into his face, but he is in control; he is keeping a hold on himself, is looking back at Athos out of clear eyes, hot and piercing.

Athos shivers under his gaze and swallows, licks his lips. When Aramis puts his hand on his cheek he leans into the touch, keeps gazing at Aramis, helpless and reverent.

“You are so beautiful,” Aramis tells him, voice soft and earnest, “I could look at you all day and never tire of it. Your eyes alone –“

Porthos spreads his fingers inside Athos once more, makes him moan and buck his hips, and a grin flickers over Aramis’ face. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you, darling?”

Athos closes his eyes and nods, hasty and eager. “Yes, please, please give me –“

“Anything,” Aramis interrupts him in a low voice; and then he leans forward, takes Athos’ face between both his hands and kisses him, deep and greedy.

He licks into Athos’ mouth as one of his hands drops down to Athos’ neck, hooks one finger into the silver ring at the front and _pulls_.

Athos feels he might come from this alone one day.

Now all he does is moan, helpless and unrestrained, and push back onto Porthos’ fingers. He feels hot inside and out, and he whimpers, clings to Aramis’ hips as a wave of pleasure crashes over him and drags him under.

Athos barely knows where he is anymore, barely remembers his own name – but he knows that he is safe, knows that he is loved, that he can _trust_.

“He’s ready,” he hears Porthos’ voice behind him, and then Porthos pulls his fingers back, pulls them out of Athos and leaves him empty and yearning. “You’re all ready for Aramis, aren’t you, love?”

He pulls Athos away from the kiss … pulls him up and into his arms, holds him in a warm embrace for a moment, while Athos’ chest rises and falls under hasty breaths. Athos presses into him, does not get enough, neither of his warmth nor of his steadying presence. “Porthos – Porthos, I need –“

“I know, love,” Porthos whispers into his ear. “Aramis is going to fill you right back up, don’t you worry.”

Athos makes a happy noise and smiles, goes completely pliant in Porthos’ arms. He enjoys the feeling of Porthos’ cock pressing against his ass, even though the sensation is muted by clothing.

Porthos has not undressed himself yet, at least not fully. It would have made Athos uncomfortable, once upon a time – now it only succeeds in making him long for the feeling of Porthos’ skin on his.

“That’s it,” Porthos whispers into his ear, “that’s so good, love – just give in, leave everythin’ to us.” He moves as he speaks, moves to the left to be replaced by Aramis.

Aramis’ arms come around Athos, close around him and pull him back against his body. It certainly feels different to be held by him, but Athos does not enjoy it any less. He sighs and leans into Aramis, breathes deep and easy. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling,” Aramis tells him quietly.

Athos only smiles wider, happy and blissful – opens his eyes when he realizes Porthos is the one sitting in front of him on the bed now.

Porthos winks when he catches him looking, warm and fond. “Hey, love.” He reaches out his hands, beckons Athos closer – and Athos moves out of Aramis’ embrace to lean forward and over Porthos’ lap. He puts his hands on the mattress, left and right of Porthos’ hips, and looks up at Porthos, waiting for his approval.

“Very good,” Porthos says, and that alone suffices to arouse Athos, to make him squirm and eager to please his lovers even more. Porthos pets Athos’ hair and bows down to kiss his brow, his cheek, “Aramis’ll take care of you now.”

Aramis is stroking his hands over Athos’ back, and Athos enjoys his gentle touch on his skin, his battle-roughened palms and fingertips. He bites his lip when Aramis lines himself up, closes his eyes when he pushes into him. 

Aramis takes his time, pushes deeper inch by inch, and it feels so good to have him inside, feels even better than Porthos’ fingers.

Athos’ mouth falls open around a moan, and he stares up at Porthos, finds him gazing back out of dark, content eyes. “You look so beautiful,” he tells Athos, “I wish you could see yourself.”

Aramis starts to move faster then, pulls back a little just to push back in again, and Athos whimpers.

“Does that feel good?” Porthos asks him, and Athos nods, holds on to him with both hands.

“So good.”

Aramis pushes into Athos, again and again, and he doesn’t move nearly as languid and careful as Porthos usually does. Instead he lets his hips snap forward and against Athos’ ass, sharp and precise, always brushing up against that spot in Athos that reduces him to wanton begging, makes him mewl and cry out Aramis’ name, again and again.

Athos’ eyes are wet, brimming with unshed tears, and he gasps when Aramis stops moving suddenly, when his hands leave bruises on Athos’ hips. “Please – please –“

“I’m going to come,” Aramis says, and his voice alone makes Athos clench around Aramis’ cock inside him, makes him push back his hips, “going to come inside you, darling, fill you right up.” Still he is not moving, is keeping himself entirely motionless. “Will you keep nice and steady for me while I do?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers, staring up into Porthos’ eyes, drowning in the love he finds there, “yes, I’ll be good.”

Porthos smiles at him, and Aramis resumes moving, just as fast and relentless as before. Athos does his best to meet his thrusts, to keep wide open and relaxed for him … and it feels so good, the way Aramis’ skin meets his, hot and insatiable.

It does not take long ere Aramis fulfils his promise and comes. He cries out when he does – both of them do – and Athos does not even notice how he claws his fingers into the bedding, how Porthos leans forward and steadies him.

Every fibre of Athos’ being is attuned to Aramis behind him, to the way his hands feel on Athos’ hips, how it feels to have his release so very deep inside.

“You know,” Porthos muses after a long moment that seems to consist entirely of Athos’ and Aramis’ laboured breathing, “I’m very lucky for bein’ the one who gets to see you together like this.” He strokes the sweaty hair off Athos’ face, traces his fingertips over Athos’ parted lips. “You’re ready to come again, aren’t you, love? Only cause Aramis filled you up so nice …”

Athos whimpers and nods, pushes his tongue out and licks over Porthos’ finger, tries to suck it into his mouth.

Porthos chuckles and draws away, cups Athos’ face with both hands. “Just a moment, love – I think we need to wait for Aramis to send you off first, eh?”

That gets a breathless laugh out of Aramis, and it shakes all the way through Athos, makes him gasp in sudden pleasure. He hears Aramis take a deep breath, hears him sigh. “Ah, Porthos, I’m afraid of standing up. My legs won’t hold me.”

“You want me to help you?” Porthos asks him, eyes twinkling, “I can do that, you know.”

Aramis leans forward, presses a kiss to Athos’ back and strokes his hands over his sides. “Give us a moment, please.”

“Of course,” Porthos says quietly, “all the time you need.”

So Aramis stays where he is for a little while longer, caressing every inch of Athos he can reach – doing his utmost to keep the flame of arousal inside Athos just high enough so it does neither burn him nor flicker out.

Aramis is still inside him, is still filling him up, and Athos cannot help himself – bites his lip and clenches around his soft cock.

This time Aramis is the one to gasp, the one to shudder and drag his nails over Athos’ chest, grazing a nipple. Athos nearly yells as a sudden spike of lust pulses through him.

Aramis moans when Athos clenches down on him again, even harder than before, and Porthos chuckles, strokes a soothing hand through Athos’ hair. “Holdin’ on to you is he, kitten?”

Aramis makes a feeble noise, releases another breathless laugh, and kisses Athos’ trembling back. “Relax for me, darling, please.”

Athos whimpers again and does, and Aramis pulls out of him, slow and careful. “Very good, thank you … you are doing so very good.”

Athos whines when he is empty, when he can feel Aramis’ release leaking out of his hole. He clenches again to keep it in, quite automatically, and shivers when Aramis presses a kiss to the bottom of his spine. “I love you darling.”

“Love you,” Athos replies. He feels weak, helpless and vulnerable – but at the same time so very safe that he does not even know how to be afraid. “Love you so much.”

“Stay right where you are, love,” Porthos tells him in a low voice, “I’ll just help Aramis up, and then I’ll be right with you.” He moves sideways on the mattress, pushes himself up to stand, and Athos follows him with his eyes for as long as he can, drinks in every inch of him.

Porthos is such a marvellous sight, no matter the state of undress; he offers Athos’ adoring gaze so much contained strength, so much quiet grace.

Athos can hear Porthos helping Aramis to his feet, hears them exchange a kiss. It makes him feel even safer, this proof of their affection for each other, makes him feel whole and content.

They love each other as much as they love him, as much as he loves them.

Their love is never going to fail him.

“’M gonna lift you up now, love,” Porthos says suddenly, “get you on your feet as well. See if you can stand, yeah?”

Athos nods, and Porthos moves over him, puts his hands on him and pulls him up. While Athos feels weak, he can still stand, and he does – turns around in Porthos’ arms to look at him, to see his face.

Porthos smiles at him when he does, strokes his hands over Athos’ hot skin and down to his ass. “Wasn’t too much for you yet, was it?”

“I want more,” Athos says immediately, lifting his chin like a child that wants to be kissed. “I want you inside me, too.”

“Then you’ll get me inside, too,” Porthos whispers, leaning down to press his mouth to Athos’. He lifts Athos up while they kiss, pulls Athos’ legs up and around his waist, carries him over to the bed. “Just wanted to make sure you can take it, love.”

“I can,” Athos murmurs, licks over Porthos’ lips and pushes his hips forward, rubs his hard cock over Porthos’ stomach, “I’ll be good, I promise.”

He catches a glimpse of Aramis, standing by the foot of the bed, looking at them, and his heart flutters at the sight. “Aramis.”

“Still here,” Aramis confirms with a little grin, “I’ll keep an eye on everything Porthos will do to you, darling – I’m sure I’ll learn a lot.” He gestures at the nest of blankets beside the bed, smirks at Porthos, “I shall make camp here, while you, ah, devour him on the bed?”

“If you don’t mind,” Porthos chuckles, holding Athos closer when he whines and nuzzles his cheek, begging for another kiss, “we’ll sure need some space, won’t we, love?”

Athos gets his kiss then, sweet and languid, is lowered onto the mattress while it goes on.

He whines again when Porthos pulls back, and his reward is Porthos’ hand on his collar, squeezing. “I wanna have a closer look at your ass, love – make sure you’re up for what I have in mind.”

He pushes Athos on his back even while he moans, strokes his hand over Athos’ chest, tweaking a nipple. His other hand is busy lifting Athos’ left leg, spreading him open, laying his used hole bare.

Athos moans again when Porthos’ thumb brushes over his entry, warm and rough, but so very careful that it makes him shiver.

“Relax, love,” Porthos whispers to him. “Let me have a look at you.”

So Athos does as he asks, allows Aramis’ release to leak out of him, allows Porthos to slide his finger inside.

“How’s that feel?” Porthos asks, his voice as gentle as his touch, “does it hurt at all when I touch you?”

“No,” Athos murmurs, staring up at Porthos out of wide eyes, “it feels good … always feels so good.”

Porthos brushes his thumb over the rim from the outside, light and teasing. “Good then. Let me get naked.”

He pulls his finger out of Athos and leaves him empty yet again.

Athos sighs at the loss, and Porthos smiles at him, lowers Athos back onto the mattress, straightens and begins to unlace his trousers. Athos watches his progress greedily, watches Porthos’ fingers on the lacing as though he could make them move faster just by wishing.

“You’re a horrible tease,” Aramis comments from his place beside the bed – reaches up to tweak the silver ring on Athos’ collar. “Isn’t he, darling?”

Athos bites his lip as his hips twitch upwards, causing his leaking cock to leave a smear of pre-come on his belly. He neither confirms nor denies, is far too busy trying not to lose his mind over the rising need to have Porthos inside him.

He watches Porthos strip out of his trousers, and then his smallclothes, watches his leg-muscles work – stares at his hard cock.

“I want you on your front, love,” Porthos tells him as he steps closer to the bed again. “Wanna be behind you this time.” He leans over Athos to kiss him, deep and demanding, sneaks a hand between Athos’ legs and drags a tantalizing fingertip down his cleft. “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers, remembering all the times he felt safe and protected with Porthos at his back, be it out on the field or in bed, “I love that.”

“Turning you around then,” Porthos murmurs, pressing another kiss to Athos’ lips, his hands gentle while moving Athos’ body, warm and sure.

Athos turns his head to the left once he is lying on his belly, opens his eyes and looks directly into Aramis’. They share a smile, and then Porthos pulls Athos’ hips up, strokes his hand over Athos’ ass. “Hand me the oil, Aramis, will ya?”

Aramis grins and obliges him, and Athos shivers pleasantly when he hears Porthos slicking himself up. An oily finger enters him only moments later, warm and rough, and Athos pants, pushes back and onto it, wants more.

“Yeah, alright, you’re good,” Porthos murmurs approvingly, “keep nice and relaxed for me love – fillin’ you back up now.”

That’s all the warning Athos gets before Porthos pushes into him. He takes possession of Athos in one slow, smooth movement, holds Athos up by his hips, holds him until his cock is all the way inside.

Athos’ lashes fall close as his mouth drops open around a soundless sigh of pleasure. The sensation of Porthos filling him up while the reminder of Aramis is still inside him is nearly too much for Athos to handle.

“You good, love?” Porthos asks when he is all the way in – the same way he always has, right from the very beginning, always checking, always making sure.

“I am,” Athos gets out – how, he does not know.

Porthos’ heat is overwhelming, inside and out. Athos has never felt so full – has never felt so _used_.

He whines when Porthos takes his hands off his hips, gasps when the right one suddenly presses down on his back. “Keep your ass up for me, love,” Porthos orders behind him, his voice low and rough. “Your head too.”

Athos promptly raises his chin, and his reward is Porthos’ left hand on his throat, squeezing carefully. “That’s it love, just like that.”

Athos stares at the wall out of wide, wet eyes, and Porthos starts _pushing_ , holding him down with the one hand, squeezing his neck with the other. Athos can feel him on top of him, can feel his strength and his control, and it makes him fall so fast that it leaves him dazed.

He has no rational thought left, no reason. There is only Porthos … Porthos fucking into him, Porthos holding him down and giving him pleasure.

Athos loves the way Porthos presses down on him, loves the way he is forcing his head up. When he turns his head to find Aramis staring at them, it only adds to his bliss, sends another spark of lust down to his cock.

The friction of it rubbing against the bedding is delicious, trapped as it is between his body and the mattress, and each of Porthos’ thrusts gives him another sweet flare of arousal.

Athos is moaning unrestrained, mouth slack and eyes wide open, and when Porthos brushes the fingers of his left hand up and towards his lips, Athos starts sucking on them greedily.

He keeps looking at Aramis, keeps looking into his eyes – never finds anything but love and devotion there.

It’s what keeps him safely tethered to the earth as he floats – Aramis’ eyes and Porthos’ hands on him. He curls his tongue around Porthos’ fingers, closes his eyes for a brief moment, revelling in his own shamelessness.

Porthos rewards him with another hard thrust, shaking the whole bed, and Athos whimpers … whines when Porthos pulls his fingers out of his mouth. His chest is heaving under hasty breaths, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and he knows that he will feel Porthos for days to come.

Will feel him in his whole body.

Athos keeps still while Porthos changes position above him, but it would be a lie to pretend that he endures it quietly. He moans when Porthos places his knees on the outside of his own, moans when Porthos stretches out all over his back, and slings his arms around his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, love,” Porthos whispers, soothing underneath the strain on his voice. “… I’ve got you.”

He is holding himself up above Athos, is taking his own weight so that Athos does not have to.

Athos feels his heat expanding above him, feels every ounce of coiled strength. He shivers every time Porthos takes a breath, when he moulds himself so perfectly to Athos that it feels as though they were becoming one.

“You’ve done so well for Aramis ‘n me,” Athos hears him whisper, feels his breath on his cheek. The words seem to have a light and life of their own, travel through Athos’ blood and into his heart, make him soar with happiness. Porthos’ hand comes up to stroke over the flushed skin of his face, spans over Athos’ mouth and muffles another moan. “You’ve done so well – we love you so much.”

He starts moving again, resumes pushing into Athos; and his cock goes so deep, he is so very close that Athos loses the last smidgen of inhibition he had left. He closes his eyes and sobs Porthos’ name into his palm, again and again, turns it into a prayer of devotion.

Porthos keeps moving above him, and Athos loves the sensation of Porthos’ stomach flexing against his back with each push, loves the way Porthos seems to cover every inch of him, from his shoulders and down to his knees.

He keeps his eyes closed until Aramis says his name. Then Athos’ eyes fly open and his heart jumps up into his throat, and he shivers, is nearly overcome by the sheer fondness in Aramis’ voice.

He stares at Aramis while he licks the hand over his mouth and begs Porthos to come inside him – wants to feel it, wants the heat and the feeling of elation that comes with it.

Aramis’ eyes are liquid with affection and awe as he stares back at him. It makes Athos feel peaceful in a way he didn’t know he could.

They love him, these persistent scoundrels that found him all those years ago – they love him just the way he is. It should not be possible, not for him, should not be possible that he loves them back with everything that he has.

He does though. He will never stop.

Porthos is holding him with both arms, is kissing his temple. He is so impossibly tender despite the relentless nature of him fucking into Athos, is so endlessly caring that it brings tears to Athos’ eyes.

“Please,” he begs again, “Porthos, please come – come inside me, g-give me –“

Porthos pushes down on him one last time, and then he comes, gives Athos what he so desperately wants.

Athos follows him over the edge immediately, has no way to hold out against the sudden heat so deep inside of him. He comes untouched, whimpering Porthos’ name, eyes closed and heart wide open.

He feels Porthos moving above him, _inside_ him as wave after wave of bliss washes over him. His body is tingling with heat and content, he feels exhausted and fulfilled … happy.

Porthos’ arms are still around his shoulders, are holding on to him and keeping him safe, and Athos turns his head, kisses one of his forearms. “I love you.”

“I know,” Porthos whispers back, brushes his lips to Athos’ right temple, “and I love you more’n anythin’ – you and Aramis – love you so much.”

Athos looks at Aramis then, naturally. He finds him smiling, lifts his head into Aramis’ touch when he reaches out his hand. “You two are beyond precious to me,” Aramis says, rubs his thumb over Athos’ cheekbone and combs his fingers through his hair. “Thank you for letting me be a part of something so special.”

Porthos lets out a slow breath, pushes himself up on his elbows. “You’re welcome kitten.” He starts to draw back, very slowly, and stops when Athos gasps. “You alright, love?”

Athos clings to him, tries to move up and get him back, and Porthos huffs, endlessly fond, “I gotta pull out, love, I’m sorry – I’ll fall asleep on you if I don’t.”

Athos whines, refuses to let him go, and Porthos chuckles, trails kisses all over his neck. “Come on, love, be good – how’m I gonna kiss you like this, eh? How’m I supposed to do that if I can’t see your face?”

Athos can see the logic in this, quite clearly even, so he relents. He keeps still when Porthos pulls out of him, although it feels remarkably unpleasant to be empty after being so wonderfully full for so long.

He keeps still while Porthos makes sure he hasn’t accidentally hurt him, bites his lip and screws his eyes shut. His hole feels extremely sensitive, his whole body does, and Porthos’ hands have never felt quite so gentle.

“You’re good,” Porthos tells him in a loving voice, “you’re all good. Aramis ’n I are gonna clean you up now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Athos says dreamily, stretches out on his belly and sighs. He is still floating, still drifting in clouds of bliss … is still wearing his collar.

He reaches up with one hand to brush his fingertips over the leather, takes a deep breath to feel it more keenly around his neck. It is a wonderful thing, he thinks, a wonderful present.

It has brought him so much pleasure.

Aramis appears next to him with a bowl full of warm water, and Athos blinks up at him, sleepy and trusting. “I love you.”

Aramis’ answering smile is bright and joyful, and he puts the bowl on the table beside the bed, bends over Athos to kiss his cheek. “I love you more, darling.”

“Impossible,” is Porthos amused comment on the matter, and then he leans over Athos as well, turns him on his back with careful hands.

They join Athos on the bed, both of them, stroke a warm, wet cloth over his skin to clean him up. They take their time, are as thorough as they are gentle with him, and Athos closes his eyes and gives in to them yet again.

He allows them to spread his legs once more, to lift his ass to get at his hole. He smiles when Aramis tells him how beautiful he is, how pretty he looks in the firelight, all flushed and relaxed.

Aramis’ words move over him like sunlight, and Athos blinks, gazes up at them from underneath his lashes, drinks in their faces. He loves them so much.

“Still flyin’, are you love?” Porthos says when he catches his gaze. He gets rid of the cloth and lies down on Athos’ left side, strokes his palm over Athos’ belly. “You wanna keep your collar a moment longer, or do you want Aramis to take it off?”

Athos immediately reaches up again, touches the leather around his neck, takes a deep breath. He likes the feeling, will always like it, but right now he wants something else.

“Take it off, please,” he says. His voice is not very clear, sounds too rough and too used, but Aramis follows his request nevertheless.

His hands are warm, his fingers deft and skilful, and it takes him but a moment to open the collar and loosen it. Instead of pulling it off right away, he allows it to fall open on the pillow – strokes both thumbs over the stripe of skin where it sat.

He does not say anything, and neither does Porthos.

Athos lifts his chin to give him better access – because this is what he wanted: Aramis’ hands on him instead of the leather, the warmth of his touch and the strength in his fingers.

He wanted the feel of skin on skin, wanted those battle-rough fingertips to brush over his pulse and the scar on his neck.

Aramis stretches out on his right side, never quite letting go of him, and Athos keeps gazing at him – keeps gazing at that soft, open expression on Aramis’ face, keeps staring at his eyes, shimmering in the firelight.

They hold him between them, Aramis and Porthos, keep stroking him, keep kissing his hair and his cheeks, sweet and easy.

It keeps him pleasantly afloat, the way they treat him, keeps him afloat for so very long that he does not even notice when he settles back into his body.

It is a gradual process, the way he regains rationality and reason. They come awake in him quite slowly – deliciously so. They are neither a burden nor a prize, but merely a part of him … one that feels lighter than before, just like the rest of him.

He sighs and turns his head, looks at Porthos, and Porthos smiles as well, grins fondly. “Welcome back, love.”

“You made me all new,” Athos whispers, and still his voice does not sound quite like himself, “I am no longer the same.”

“You think I am?” Porthos replies, grinning despite the earnest tone in his voice. “You think I can face that much love ‘n beauty and remain unchanged?”

“Will you two please stop?” Aramis asks them, sounding precariously overcome, and Athos turns his head to look at him, smiles at him too.

“But you enjoy it when we use our words.”

“Too much!” Aramis exclaims with a helpless laugh. “Too much to remain sane!” He looks down at the collar still lying on the pillow, and he bites his lip, takes a deep breath. “Lift your head for me, darling?”

Athos does, and Aramis pulls the collar away, sits up to put it to the side. When he turns back around he looks flushed, almost shy, and Athos smiles up at him, raises his hand to cup Aramis’ cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Aramis asks – leans into Athos’ touch like a little boy, closes his eyes and sighs.

“For loving me,” Athos replies softly.

Aramis’ eyes open, and he blinks his lashes, one, two, three times. “How could I not?”

“There, you two are even worse,” Porthos murmurs behind them.

Athos’ mouth pulls into a smile, and he pulls Aramis down, pulls him into his arms and holds him close. He can feel Porthos shift behind him, and then his arms are around them both. His chest presses against Athos’ back with every breath that he takes, and Athos smiles through the tears suddenly obstructing his vision.

It is just too much – all that warmth expanding in his chest, all that light underneath his skin. He is too happy.

Aramis does not ask when he sees him crying. He wipes away his tears and kisses him, assuring and sweet, undemanding. Porthos strokes his hand over Athos’ belly when he notices, and he does not say anything either. They simply hold him through it, hold him until all that happiness has settled into his bones, until it is a part of him.

“I love you,” he says when he believes he can speak without his voice abandoning him, and Aramis kisses his cheek once again.

“We know.”

“We love you too,” Porthos whispers into his ear. “Sleep a little, love. Get some rest, eh?”

“Yes,” Athos murmurs, and comes willingly when Aramis directs his head to lie on his chest. “Yes, rest.”

 

It is snowing outside when Athos opens his eyes again. Thick heavy flakes of white are covering half the windowpane already. He watches them tumble and dance on the wind, enjoys the way Aramis’ chest moves up and down under his cheek as he dreams with his eyes wide open.

He is far too comfortable, warm and relaxed, and when Aramis lifts his hand to stroke a strand of hair behind his ear, Athos shifts his gaze to look at him, finds him smiling. “Hello, darling.”

The term of endearment sounds quite natural to Athos, especially coming from Aramis. So he smiles as well, turns his face into Aramis’ chest to press a kiss to his skin. “Hello.”

Aramis sighs deeply, buries his fingers in Athos’ hair and brushes his fingertips over Athos’ scalp. “It almost makes me afraid how happy I am.”

“Don’t be,” Athos murmurs, moves higher up on the mattress and pulls Aramis into his arms, brings their mouths together. “There is no need to be afraid.”

“What he says,” Porthos pipes up from behind Athos’ back, audibly amused. “We’ll keep you quite safe, kitten.”

“You know what I mean,” Aramis accuses him, melting into Athos’ embrace, and Porthos chuckles, leans over Athos to press a kiss to Aramis’ lips.

“Yeah, I do.” He closes his eyes, drags the tip of his nose over Aramis’ cheek. “Doesn’t mean ‘s not the truth. We’ll keep you safe.”

“You can’t make that kind of promise,” Aramis cautions him. He closes his eyes as well, bites his lip for a moment. “You know how I –“

“How you love us? Yeah, I do,” Porthos interrupts him gently. “Just be happy, kitten. Lord knows I am.”

Aramis opens his eyes, and so does Porthos, and Athos keeps very quiet while they look at each other.

Athos knows how Aramis feels, why he is afraid. But he understands Porthos as well. They have been through so much already. It did not weaken them. It made them stronger.

“Porthos is right,” he hears himself say, lifts his hand to cup Aramis’ cheek. “We will take care of each other, Aramis. We always have. Our promise to you is not empty.”

“Ah, there you go using your words again,” Aramis replies, his voice light while his eyes fill with tears. “I think, in the future, we must put a limit on how often in one day you are allowed to do that, because you see –“

Athos smiles when Porthos leans in to silence him with a kiss, smirks when he hears the little noise of bliss Aramis tries to contain. “I will use my words as often as I please, if it’s all the same to you.”

He entangles his fingers with Aramis’, and it anchors him – anchors him the same way Porthos’ warmth and closeness do.

He feels weightless between his two lovers, feels protected and unafraid. They will not let him go.

At this point, he has no plans to let them go either.

 

 

*** * * six weeks later * * ***

 

“I think at this point I’ll be lucky if I get my breakfast at sundown.”

Porthos is lying on his back on the bed, stretched out over the whole width of the mattress, and scowls.

He does have reason to be incensed, Athos has to admit. So he stops kissing Aramis, clears his throat, and steps away from him. “I do beg your pardon.”

“Eh, ‘s not your fault, love,” Porthos grumbles, “I should’ve just gone meself.”

“I am going!” Aramis exclaims while Athos returns to the bed and thus to Porthos’ arms. “Am I not dressed? Am I not ready to go out and brave the cold so you can stay in here with Athos and –“

“Nobody asked you to!” Porthos interrupts him. “I was more’n prepared to get us our breakfast, same way I always do!”

“Well maybe I want to be the one who spoils you for once,” Aramis informs him testily. “You really could be a bit more grateful!”

“I’ll be grateful once you’re back with the food!” Porthos growls. “So far all you’ve done is _talk_ about it and kiss Athos – claiming rewards for somethin’ you haven’t even done yet!”

Aramis grins at him. “So you’re jealous, is that it?”

Since Athos is just now climbing into bed with Porthos, all Aramis gets in return to that question is a raised brow.

He pouts. “It’s cold outside!”

“Yeah, you said,” Porthos purrs, while he sneaks both hands underneath Athos’ shirt, strokes them down his chest and belly, “Better be quick then, eh?”

Athos has an inkling that they will keep this up until Porthos’ stomach starts to growl. Aramis hasn’t even donned his hat yet, is not even wearing his gloves.

“Maybe I should stay here after all,” Aramis muses with a teasing smile. “I’m not hungry yet, and I bet Athos isn’t either.”

“Leave me out of this,” Athos murmurs, trailing kisses over Porthos’ neck and shoulder, and Porthos chuckles, strokes his hand through Athos’ hair.

“You know that this is making it even harder for me to leave you,” Aramis accuses them in a tragic voice, causing Athos to look up at Porthos and grin. “I want to stay in bed with you!”

Porthos’ stomach finally growls at this point, and so does Porthos. “Alright, that’s it, I’m going meself!” He moves to get up, and Aramis makes a fluttery movement with both arms, rushes towards the bed.

“No, no, no! Porthos, I was joking! I’m going! Stay in bed, _please_ , I was just about to –“ He puts both hands on Porthos’ shoulders and bears down on him, tries to push him back on the mattress.

All he succeeds in is falling forward and on top of both Porthos and Athos.

It knocks the air out of all three of them, and the bed creaks ominously.

“It keeps doing that,” Aramis mumbles into Porthos’ chest, “I just hope –“

The bed breaks. It flies sideways, doing so, meets the ground like a lady performing an especially passionate curtsy.

“Now you’ve done it,” Porthos comments after a moment of stunned silence, and there’s more glee than reproach in his voice. “You’ve finally done it.”

They pick themselves up out of the ruins, stand beside the bed regarding it mournfully for a moment. Two of its feet have given up it seems, have folded in on themselves, and brought the whole structure down.

Athos delicately clears his throat. “I propose we go out for breakfast.”

“Good idea,” Porthos grunts. “I know a new place.”

They get dressed, and leave the room, wait for Aramis while he locks up behind them.

“Where are we going then?” he asks when they round the corner at the end of the street.

Porthos makes an innocent face, looks up at the grey sky for a moment. “To Odette’s place. She works at her parents’ tavern now. Did you know – Constance tells me she’s lookin’ for boarders? Wants to turn the tavern into somethin’ a bit nicer – and they have a few rooms available at the back.”

“Constance told me the same thing,” Aramis pipes up, linking his arms with Athos’ and Porthos’. “Three rooms, not very big, but clean – and she cooks very well too … at least that’s what Constance says.”

Athos smiles, hides his face behind the rim of his hat for a moment. “Is that what Constance says?” He looks up, still smiling, first at Aramis, then at Porthos.

It appears they believe it is time for a change, and so does Athos. “Let us have breakfast at Madame Folquet’s then. I would like to see how she is doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. Here's where it ends. It was a marvellous journey, taught me quite a lot about writing, not to say about _people_ , and I am very grateful to everyone who let me know that I wasn't alone in enjoying this story.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for everything, Anique, I couldn't have done it without you <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm available on [tumblr](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/) if you need me.


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